Turning On Its Axis
by WanderingSoprano
Summary: Eurus had one more plan at Sherrinford to confront Sherlock Holmes with his truths. One more game. Mycroft Holmes had buried a secret for years. Sherlock Holmes had a child, who was now an adult. If he couldn't figure out who they were from a line of prisoners, then innocent people would die. Multichapter, Sherlolly
1. One More Game

**Hi! Welcome to my first story published on this, my new account!  
This story commences immediately after Sherlock destroys Molly's coffin in Season 4 Episode 3.  
** **Of we go...**

 **Disclaimer: All that isn't canon belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, the BBC and all whom carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

 _Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you…_

 _The next one isn't going to be so easy._

Splinters buried into Sherlock's hands, like pins in a voodoo doll.

 _Breathe._

 _Molly's safe._

 _The girl needs to land the plane._

… _I love you._

White hot rage burned from the inside out; acid dissolving the chasm of everything he thought he knew.

 _Keep control._

About his family. About Molly. About himself.

'Soldiers' He heard John's voice escape into the void he was holding around himself, the blur began to clear. John's expression spoke a thousand words. It meant reassurance. It settled him back in reality.

His eyes focused on the gun John was holding, a lifeline.

Later, John would say that he spoke of lab rats and torture, and he wouldn't remember a thing.

Steeling himself, Sherlock stood, taking the offensive object into his hand. It seemed to feel heavier now.

Onwards the soldiers marched. The Politician, Detective, and Doctor.

 _Tick tock tick tock,_ Moriarty's voice chimed into the labyrinth, _tick tock tick tock._

Apprehension billowed in the men's stomach's as they turned a corner.

The first thing Sherlock saw in the room was the screen. Wider than the one before. The space around it seemed suffocating. Plain walls dusted with decay held strong.

Mycroft inhaled and stuck his chest out a little, forcing some semblance of resolve into existence. "Eurus," He drawled, "If you don't mind, we don't have all day for your _games."_

John's head flicked at the statement. His palms fisted together by his sides.

Sherlock slowly paced around the space, picking out little details in an attempt to slow his racing heart. But there was nothing of relevance.

"But brother, I'm enjoying just observing you." Eurus' voice cut through the speakers. Only John flinched at the sudden sound, "Isn't that what us Holmes' do best? Observe… All those emotions are just so complicated. They can reveal so much-"

Sherlock and Mycroft caught each other's eyes.

"-So many secrets. Hmmm. I wonder what secrets Mycroft Holmes is keeping from his little brother…" She trailed off, but not out of insecurity.

Sherlock saw Mycroft's cheek twitch. A small movement, but a tell nonetheless. Blue eyes narrowed upon his older brother. But then he turned to the screen that remained black.

"More than having an insane sister who I'd repressed all memory of? Sorry Eurus-"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft's voice cut through gritted teeth. He knew.

"-I hardly think that our brother is capable of-"

The screen switched on. Eurus stared impassively at the three subjects. Her face gave away little, except the knowledge of knowing. Sherlock recognised it as one he expressed himself. He stopped talking.

"Time for a story. If any of you dare to speak before I say so, this game is over before it has started. Agreed?"

The Holmes brothers didn't answer, but John uttered a small nod of his head.

"Very well," Eurus began smoothly, her head tilting a little, "The year is 1996. The place, Oxford University. A little Sherlock Holmes is just entering his second semester in his second year of studies. He is scarcely out of adolescence and certainly not ready to be a man."

Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"The world is too noisy for little Sherlock, too many colours, too many stupid people." A glimmer of a sickly smile graced her features, "Here, he made the biggest mistake of his life." She thought, "No, that doesn't sound right… This is where Mycroft made the biggest mistake of his."

Eurus sat back a little and her eyes flicked over all three men. Her expression became passive once more. "Discuss."

The screen turned off.

Doctor Watson and Holmes stared at Mycroft, staple within the British Government, in whom the democracy and monarchy often laid upon his shoulders. A man who's face had turned grey.

"Mycroft-" Sherlock began. One word emerged from his brother into his vision. _Danger._

His eyes fixed on the ground, lips pulled into a line. "Eurus," Mycroft started, voice in a dangerous tone John had never heard before, "Don't do this."

Eurus appeared on the screen again, "Oh, but Mycroft." She smiled. "I already have."

Then the screen changed. Five young adults were lined in a dark room, hands and legs bound behind them. A piece of cloth wound in each of their jaws.

John gasped.

Mycroft took a step back, in a motion too dramatic for an enigma such as himself. A strange noise emitted from his throat, he paled as a bead of sweat branded itself on his forehead.

An expression of concern briefly flashed over the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Eurus reappeared, "Mycroft. Turn around. I can't have you helping out brother now can I?"

John stared frantically at Mycroft.

"Turn around, Mycroft. And close your eyes whilst you do."

A shuddered breath from the politician filled the small room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. You need to understand, it wasn't-"

" _Now,_ Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes slowly turned, eyes closed. Sherlock saw the his legs tremble as he did.

 _Danger._

"Spit it out, Eurus. Who are those people?" Sherlock demanded.

"Let me continue the story."

John protectively took a step closer to his friend, whilst Mycroft seemed to merge closer to the wall in the back of the room.

The screen flicked back to the kidnapped people. Four women, one man. All were just out of teenagehood.

Eurus' voice chimed over the images on screen. "Little Sherlock liked taking drugs to quieten the world. To focus his sharp- although blind- mind. He met a woman, who enjoyed narcotics almost as much as he did… And they worked together, and they had sex together. It was Sherlock Holmes' first experience with a woman. It was beautifully tragic."

As John heard the tale, he searched Sherlock's face for an ounce of reaction, but it remained flat. The only symptom of tension was his fists that he kept wringing tight and out again repetitively, despite the splinters buried in his palm.

"Now, Jim told me in his little observations of you Sherlock that you like reality television. And this is it. The twist of the year." There was a dark sense of pride in her tone.

"John, you must help Sherlock decide which one of these people is his child."

A pin could have dropped.

John's jaw moved up and down as he tried to figure what to say, anything to say.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his posture held like a brick. His stillness didn't calm John at all.

"Why is Mycroft turned around?" Sherlock asked, his voice crisp. _Control. Danger. Molly's safe. Breathe._

"Because Mycroft Holmes is well-aware who your child is. He went to see it when it was seven week's old. He's known all this time, Sherlock-"

Crack's began to form in Sherlock's brain. They throbbed for release.

"He's known. And mummy's known. And daddy's known. And yet no one told you-"

Blue eyes widened a fraction, and lips parted. His mind screamed a thousand words and yet none were voiced.

"No one told you," She repeated, "Because you aren't capable of the love."

It was John Watson who spoke, his voice laced with anger, to the politician in the corner. "Mycroft, is this true?"

Sherlock's eyes were wide as he waited for his brother's reply.

"…Yes."

Air fell from Sherlock's lungs louder than he could control. _Danger. Danger. Danger Vatican cameos danger-_

"And do you know who the person is? In the line? Is Eurus lying?" John demanded.

Mycroft's head hung low, "Yes, they're there… Clear as day."

"You know them from only seeing them at seven week's old?"

" _As clear as day."_ Mycroft hissed.

 _Focus focus FOCUS –_

"So," Eurus' voice reappeared, "Your game is this. A task for the Baker Street boys. Find Sherlock Holmes' child. Devil is in the detail. It's not as obvious as you think. Dear Mycroft over there isn't allowed to say a single word, tap out Morse code on his fingers, or any of those silly games. I'll know."

"And if we're wrong?" Sherlock commanded.

"Choose the wrong person and they all die. Choose the right one, and none of them do. You have five minutes… Time to find your child, Sherlock Holmes. Discuss."

 _Tick tock tick tock tick tock…_

A small timer flicked onto the top of the screen and started counting down.

 _4:59…_

"Jesus," Muttered John, "Bloody _hell."_

" _John-"_

"You have a child! Right… right _there!"_ The doctor flung his arm at the screen, "Fucking hell! What the hell are we meant to do-"

"John!" Sherlock growled, "Listen. This is a ploy. She is getting Mycroft to play along. I don't have a child. Don't you think I'd notice-"

"You're sure-"

" _Obviously."_

"Because I'm not," John bit back, "Look at them."

All five young adults on the screen bore a resemblance to Sherlock, whether from the steely eyes to hair to bone structure. It was the most abhorrent display of foul play John had ever seen. They all looked so scared.

 _4:38…._

"Sherlock, I know you don't want this to be true. But if you don't play along then all of these people will die!"

Sherlock pivoted to face his friend, and it was contorted in anger, "Don't you think I'd be able to spot my child if I saw it, John? I don't. Eurus is _not_ telling the truth" He susurrated, "They're all going to die anyway."

"Don't say that, Sherlock." Berated John, "Don't say that."

"And why shouldn't I?" The cracks began to crumble, "We found a guilty man earlier, she killed everyone anyway. She killed the guard's wife despite him committing suicide to save her. All on her word. You really expect me to believe she will save them?" He snorted with derision, "I think not."

 _4:17…_

John held in an explicative and stared at his friend with hot frustration screaming on his features. "Don't presume… She didn't kill Molly."

Sherlock held his hands up, "Oh how kind of her!" he conceded sarcastically. "It doesn't counteract everything she's done though, does it?!"

 _Tick tock tick tock…_

The army doctor held himself strongly. "Why didn't she kill Molly then?"

The consulting detective was able to read people. It was something he held on his pedestal. Over his years knowing John Watson, he knew when the atmosphere shifted when John was right. It was like an anchor dropping in deep ocean. However, it didn't make it any easier to admit. Sherlock knew there was no way that any person on that screen was born from a liaison in 1996. Eurus couldn't be trusted. But he could trust John. He could trust Molly. And Eurus knew that.

"I don't know." He lied.

"Yes, yes you do."

 _3:56…_

"What the hell do you want me to say?" Sherlock sighed, "Doing this now won't save those people!"

"You just said they'll die anyway!" John counteracted vehemently, "Tell me- Tell me why she didn't kill Molly. And you tell me why she can't have the same process when it comes to _your child."_

Sherlock's jaw clenched, his empty hand going up to drag through his hair. His form slacked a little, and John knew he had broken through.

"Please," offered John quietly.

The detective let out a small breath, "You propose that Eurus didn't kill Molly, because she knew that I loved her. That I _really_ loved her."

"…You don't have to speak in past tense."

"It's easier, John."

 _3:42…_

"You propose that because of this, Eurus didn't want to kill her. She doesn't need to rip my heart out, like Moriarty said he would all these years ago. She knows how to really burn me… To make me confront everything, like being sucked into an East wind. She killed the others to scare me. Now she dangles the most pivotal people in my life in front of me to make a point, _not_ to kill them."

John stared at his friend as he spoke his deductions out loud, although John knew it was more telling of Sherlock's own thought processes than his own.

"And, you suggest, that if there is a person there, on that screen that is really my biological offspring, the same rule will apply. Eurus doesn't have to kill them, if she's made her point."

 _3:26…_

"Isn't it worth a shot?" John asked slowly, his eyes displaying a glimmer of promise.

"I don't believe I have off-spring John," Sherlock stated, but it didn't sound as confident as before, "This is a ruse."

They heard Mycroft sigh agitatedly from behind them.

"No, it's a _game_. If you play it, and it's true. You may just be gaining someone in your life who would turn it around. And if it's not, at least you tried to save those innocent people. Believe it. Just for this, if anything. You _have_ to believe it's a possibility."

John's eyes bore into Sherlock's, and the latter knew he was right.

 _3:11…_

His face betrayed the weight of doubt, but he stood taller, eyes narrowed, action approaching his features like a wave.

"The game is on."

 _3:08…_

Detective and Doctor swooped to the screen. Sherlock started to rally off information, "Myself and Maria Esposito were engaged intimately over a period spanning 78 days between April 1996 and June 1996, this would mean if there was a child born they'll be recently twenty-one." His eyes narrowed, "The woman on the far right is twenty-four, she's not right."

"Okay." John agreed, forcing himself to hide his shock from Sherlock's words. This needed to be as clinical, otherwise Sherlock could panic or delve so deep in denial he wouldn't work. Deep down, John knew it was true. He had to keep Sherlock concentrating.

 _2:41…_

"Maria had black hair, like mine, but straighter. Green eyes. Considering the likely hood of eye colours through genomes means-"

"Not brown eyes," John filled in, "The lady on the second left has them."

"Brilliant," he eyed the woman over, "Her height doesn't match either of our proportions either. Further evidence that it's not her. Eurus did well, finding someone with the same bone structure, but the fundamentals aren't there."

"It's not her."

 _2:20…_

' _I just can't handle the drama. Someone pour me some tea!'_ Moriarty's voice pierced.

Something happened on the screen out of camera view. The young adults started panicking.

Sherlock didn't venture anything for a few moments, John could see he was hitting a brick wall. Panic prickled in his stomach.

Three people left. All of which looked too much like Sherlock Holmes.

A lady on the first left stared with bright blue eyes and shoulder length curly black hair, her features, although swollen and red, were undeniably softer than the consulting detectives, they didn't quite match. But the brow was strung with the same arch.

In the middle was a young man, lanky with a similar build to Sherlock but with the way he held himself he looked more like Mycroft. John knew this is why Sherlock was stalling. His hair, black, was trimmed. The features didn't match Sherlock's. Maybe he didn't look like Sherlock, but maybe he looked like a _Holmes_. An expression passed over the man's face of indigence that reminded him of Eurus. Or was he imagining it now?

"Two minutes left Sherlock…" Eurus sing-songed, briefly appearing on the screen until it flashed back to the prisoners.

 _1:59…_

The last lady on the right looked like Sherlock Holmes. So much that it stumped John briefly. Although bent, she looked tall, slim, dark hair falling down to her hips in loose curls. The face resembled photos of Sherlock John had seen at his parents' house from when he was younger. Her green eyes (which seemed to be the only major difference), were glancing everywhere a mile a minute. Was she deducing?

"Sherlock, say something-"

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted, teeth clenched together, "I don't _fucking_ know."

John let out a breath, "Calm down, I'm here, alright? Let's think logically-"

"I only think logica-"

"Sherlock, no. _Listen_. When Mycroft spoke about them, when he said clear as day. Who was he referring to?"

"How should I-"

"For God's sake, think!"

A series of expressions past Sherlock's face in an instant, and then his hands whipped up to his temples and his eyes shut. Seconds flew by. John began to panic.

 _1:36…_

Like a fountain exploding with water, Sherlock's eyes flew open. "A woman. Mycroft was addressing a woman!"

"Are you sure-"

"Yes, it was all over the inflecion of his voice. The man's out."

Suddenly, the lights in the room went red.

They heard Mycroft stifle a groan.

Eurus' voice slipped through the speakers, her tone soft and menacing,

"Two left. Well done, Baker Street Boys. One of them is right, you're doing _very_ well. On the 17th of February 1997, Maria gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Sherlock Holmes had become a father. And where was he I hear you ask? In a drug den. Unaware. Maybe now you can redeem yourself, or maybe she hates you… Maybe we'll never know. One minute left.."

 _0:58…_

"Christ," John moaned, "Jesus Christ." His eyes slipped up onto the two figures, and he fought against all the anger and fear in his body.

Then he saw it.

"Sherlock, the child's mother, was she English?"

"No. Italian."

"Then it's the girl on the right. She's your daughter."

The weight of the words hung in the air. The girl with Sherlock's face but green eyes.

Sherlock Holmes stared dumbfounded. _Danger._ "How do you know?"

"A small tattoo on her collarbone. See?"

How had he not seen it before? Writing in script format, lyrically embedded in the skin.

' _ **Si dice sempre il lupo più grande che non è'**_

"Sherlock, that's her. That's your daughter. Say it."

Sherlock froze.

"Stop the timer and say it." Repeated John.

He hesitated. Sherlock Holmes felt as if someone had plunged a hot object into his larynx and was holding it there. He couldn't breathe. This was… This was wrong.

Anger flashed on John's face, "Say it! Damn it Sherlock say it!"

 _0:29…_

Danger.

 _TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK_

"SHERLOCK!"

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, louder than John had anticipated. His eyes were wide and composure forgotten. A ball of rage was left. "It's not her! It's her on left!"

"Sherlock that makes no-"

 _0:23…._

"The wolf is made bigger than it is?!" Sherlock threw his head back and laughed maniacally, "That Italian states that lying is right for the sake of-"

"If they believe in lying then they must be related to you!"

"No no no!" Sherlock counteracted, "No. You're wrong. It's her." His gaze swapped to the girl with black hair, blue eyes, but a soft face, "I know it's her. She has the same proportions as my mother, Maria's cheeks, myself slapped all over her."

He saw John's doubt.

"I _have_ to trust my instinct."

 _0:16…_

"Sherlock," John started, but he couldn't find the reasoning in what he wanted to say; he sagged and gave his friend a no-nonsense expression, "Are… Are you sure?"

"Yes." _He was sure._

"You have to say it, brother of mine!" Eurus' voice sung again.

"Say what?"

"That she's your daughter."

Silence.

 _0:09…_

 _0:08…_

Later, John would recall that this was the exact moment Sherlock's life spun on it's axis. And not even for the first time that day. He'd recall that he watched his friend, sweating, as the severity of the situation finally hit. It was like he could see a physical weight being dropped on his body. He'd been made to deduce, so much, to such detail, that it was obvious. He had a daughter. And that was her. Tied up, and suffering, because of him.

 _0:07…_

"Eurus, the lady on the far left," He swallowed bile down his throat, "She's my daughter."

The screen vanished to black, and the light's lifted immediately to sickly fluorescent white. Sherlock's body sagged, and he felt pressure running to his head. He saw spots-

Hands came behind him quickly before he fell, "Steady, Sherlock."

Another set of hands came to his side and they gently sat him down. His breathing was so erratic he could scarcely hear anymore. But he knew his brothers hands. And he felt him sit beside him. John on the other side.

The Politician, Detective, and the Doctor, side by side on the floor of a mental institution.

John looked over his friend's slumping form to Mycroft, who had never looked so perturbed before. John swallowed, "Did he get it right?"

'CONGRATULATIONS SHERLOCK HOLMES!' Moriarty's dead voice shouted through the speakers gaily, 'You, sir, are the child's biological father!' Automated audience clapping filled the room, so loud it tore through the men's ears. Cheering, jeering, booing, yelling-

In that moment, John thought he heard Sherlock sob. But if he had, he would never speak of it again. And neither would Mycroft.

* * *

Molly Hooper wiped her eyes and chided herself, wrapping a powder pink throw further around her body. No more crying over Sherlock Holmes, she had thought, again and again, as she cried more and more.

She wasn't a joke. She wasn't an experiment.

Molly considered herself a strong woman, despite her insecurities. A nervous woman can still be headstrong, can still be sure about who they are and where the line of respect is drawn.

Sherlock Holmes had turned all her pride on it's head. And it hurt.

The pathologist bit down a whimper as she focused on her television screen. Playing was the Jeremy Kyle show, some woman wanted to know the paternity of her child out of four potential men. A brief memory flashed of her and Sherlock in hysterics when they'd watched it together once, when the world thought him dead.

Suddenly, it wasn't as engaging anymore.

Molly sighed shakily and-

 _BANG BANG BANG_

A surprised noise escaped her throat and she leapt to her feet, spilling her glass of wine as she did. Who would bang on her door like that? Sher-

 _BANG BAND THUD BANG_

Fear clenched Molly's chest and she scrambled to her kitchen, grabbing the biggest frying pan she could find. She wiped her face with one hand and went for the door as the banging continued.

 _BANG THUD THUD BANG BANG BANG-_

In the hallway, she braced herself against the wall, frying pan in the air. Her spare hand lingered on the handle.

One… Two… Three…

She threw the door open, fire in her eyes. They were extinguished in a moment.

Stood before her was a young woman, black shoulder length hair, blue eyes. She wore what looked somewhat like a hospital gown. Blood trailed down from her temple, and her side. With a pale hand she gripped one side of Molly's doorframe, tears in her eyes.

"Wha-" Molly gasped, frying pan dropping to the floor.

"Aiuto…. Aiu- aiuto," the woman gasped out, then she frowned and cried out as she struggled to think, "Aiuto… Hel? Me…." A flash of realisation occurred, "Help me."

Then she collapsed, on Doctor Molly Hooper's doorstep.

* * *

 **What's that? A review box? Wow, isn't it pretty!**

 **E**


	2. Bigger Than Her

**AN ~ Thank you for the subscriptions, favourites, and reviews! So grateful.  
We are now picking up as Sherlock and John are leaving Musgrave Hall, after the Eurus incident.  
See you on the other side!**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright to BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

' _The roads we walk have demons beneath. And yours have been waiting for a very long time.'_

Tension could have been cut with a knife.

Pressure weighed itself down on the ground, alluring, yet daunting.

Sherlock Holmes sat in a car seat, his face tight, eyes closed, hands tapping on his thighs.

' _Mycroft's been lying to you, to both of us. They're not dogs' bones.'_

' _You say it. Go on. You say it first. Say it. Say it like you mean it.'_

' _He's known, and mummy's known, and daddy's known, and yet no one told you.'_

' _Holmes killing Holmes…'_

' _Eurus, the lady on the far left. She's my daughter.'_

' _I love you.'_

"Sherlock? Please mate, say something."

John Watson understood trauma. He understood how emotional stress could undo a person. Hell, he'd been there and back and round again. He had dealt- _he still dealt-_ with grief, trauma, the chaos of his life and it's impact. What had happened today… It very nearly undid him.

Nevermind the man sitting next to him.

He was terrified for Sherlock Holmes.

It had been fourteen hours since the explosion at Baker Street.

In fourteen hours, John had witnessed his best friend lose his home, be confronted with memories he had repressed, be forced to face his emotional attachments to Molly Hooper to save her life, almost turn a gun on himself, and, most dreadful, admit to having a daughter he had never known existed.

John let out a shaky sigh and laid his head that was still damp lay on the back of his seat. To his thanks, the NHS services had provided him with blankets and a change of clothes after his incident in the well, yet the stench and bitter cold still remained on his skin.

God, he wanted to get home. He wanted Rosie. He wanted Mary more so, but he admonished that thought before the swell of grief in his stomach overtook him.

After Eurus had been escorted back to Sherrinford, Sherlock had seemed… Himself. At least, more man than void.

Lestrade had arranged transport for them back to London, and Sherlock had been grateful. They would give statements tomorrow. For now, they took care of themselves.

Yet the moment the car door closed, so did Sherlock.

He hadn't spoken a word, nor acknowledged anyone's existence since. It was like sitting next to a ghost.

But, as John was starting to weary away into the exhaustion of the day, the ghost stirred.

"Sherlock," Enquired John carefully, "Can you hear me?"

"Mmm."

A sigh of relief helplessly fell from the Doctor's lips.

"You've been gone for a while," John started, trying his best to encourage conversation, yet he hardly knew what to say, "Thank you, for saving me."

No response.

"You saved a lot of people today, Sherlock. Molly, myself, Mycroft, even Eurus…" He hesitated, "Your daughter. And all those young adults."

"I didn't save them."

John's brow furrowed.

"Yes, yes you-"

"Your judgement is being clouded by exhaustion. I didn't save people today. Others… Died around me. That- that girl, who apparently is my child, was held against her will _because_ of me. Molly was never in danger, and you and Mycroft protected yourselves."

Anxiety swirled in John's stomach at the ice in Sherlock's tone. Although his mind protested, he heard himself saying words he really knew he shouldn't.

"What are you going to do now?"

He saw Sherlock's cheek twitch. Similar to how Mycroft's did when under pressure. He wondered if his daughter would do the same.

"I need to see Molly," Sherlock replied slowly, "She deserves an explanation."

 _Okay…_ "Do you, ah, are you going to tell her you meant it when you said you loved her?"

"I don't believe in love-"

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. My feelings for Molly are complicated. Attachment and sentiment are not my area. She deserves an explanation. I admit… I admit to wanting more of relationship with her... But I don't believe in love. And I won't lie."

Doctor Watson laced his hands together as he considered his friend's words. Deep down, he knew this was as much as love confession the stunted detective would probably give him. Not believing in love didn't mean he wasn't _in_ love.

"…Okay, that's fine." He swallowed, wincing a little at the dryness of his throat, "What about the elephant in the room?"

For the first time since leaving Musgrave Hall, Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John's.

"My daughter."

"Your daughter."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, and he looked away. John could visualise the thunder behind Sherlock's eyes. His entire family had kept this secret from him. They had betrayed him.

Sherlock didn't even know her name.

"You can stay with me, you know. At my flat," Offered John, carefully changing the subject, "We'll go to Baker Street tomorrow. For now I'm not leaving you on your own."

A numb nod emerged from his friend's form. A thank you.

Silence consumed the men for a few minutes, as their driver continued on the motorway smoothly through the night.

A thought brought John out of his stupor, he reached for his phone, and grudgingly realised it wasn't there.

"Sherlock, do you still have your phone?"

The detective frowned.

"Mine's gone. Must've left it in the ones I was wearing earlier. It's probably dead with water damage anyway…"

Sherlock remained impassive, but reached into his Belstaff and took out his mobile, passing it to John.

"I left Rosie with my neighbour this morning. I need to let her know where I am."

John frowned a little when he saw it was switched off, he couldn't recall a time in which Sherlock would have ever done that. But now wasn't the time to question it. He held the button that switched it on, and waited. After a few seconds, the home screen came to life, blue light scorching the darkness of the vehicle. John went to open the phone keypad- and was distracted by alerts flashing across the top of the screen.

 _Missed Call: Molly Hooper (23)_

 _Voicemail: Molly Hooper (4)_

"Er, Sherlock-"

 _Messages: Molly Hooper (11)_

John immediately went to open the messages, and his face fell and what he read.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm?"

"It's your daughter…" John replied, face contorted with confusion as he tried to make sense of the messages, "She's with Molly."

Sherlock's body turned in a flash.

"No, wait- No, they're at the hospital. I think- I think she's been dropped on Molly's doorstep? She's been with her all day- I don't think she knows it's your daughter though. Christ- Oh." He stilled as he read the final message, and swallowed.

Sherlock's eyes were like saucers. Prying for the information that John held in his hands. _Of course Eurus would do this. Of course._ Nausea swept over him but he battled it down. _Focus. Danger._

"Spit it out, John."

"Sherlock…Her name is Viola."

Inside Sherlock's mind palace, a bomb went off.

Yet he remained still.

John registered Sherlock's standby mode nervously, turned to the driver, and told them to change course. Then, he called Mycroft. They were going to St Bart's.

* * *

For Sherlock Holmes, St Bart's hospital could have been seen as the office. A home away from home. For the past eight years, nearly nine, Sherlock had been coming here to work in the morgue. Doctor Molly Hooper by his side.

Yet, as they approached now, Sherlock couldn't remember it ever feeling so alien.

In this building, was his daughter.

His _daughter._

 _Clinical and rational,_ he instructed himself, _she's a case._

As the driver pulled up, John murmured a thank you whilst Sherlock swept out of the car.

Side by side, him and John burst through the doors. No words were spoken as they trod their way through the colourless building. Sherlock chose not to comment on the way John limped after the stress of the day. They knew where they needed to be.

* * *

Molly Hooper sat in a waiting room, slumped in a worn uncomfortable chair. Grogginess was starting to get the better of her. She wanted to go home. The clock in her eye line read 2:19am. If Molly wasn't such an empathetic person, she would have left by now. She didn't know the woman she had brought into the hospital, and the brief conversations they had hadn't explained a lot. Molly had no responsibility to stay. And yet she did.

Earlier, she had been waiting with the young woman- Viola, apparently- when her eyes caught the news on a screen.

 _EXPLOSION AT BAKER STREET. RESIDENTS UNHARMED._

First, she had panicked. Then, she realised that Sherlock had called _after_ the explosion. A quick call with Mrs Hudson- who was also safe- reassured her that John was as well, although they had left Baker Street with Mycroft without a glance after the incident. The only thing Sherlock had said to her was, "The East wind has risen. Stay safe," as they left.

That was the moment she realised that whatever was going on today was bigger than her. Something had caused his flat to explode. Something had caused Sherlock to make that phone call. Something that had left an injured woman, who looked like she could have been one of his relatives, on her doorstep.

It had grounded her. And she had stayed.

"Molly!"

She jumped at the sound, head flicking up. She felt nothing but relief when she saw the familiar faces of Sherlock and John rushing towards her.

Her face fell, however, when she saw them in more detail. They looked terrible.

John looked as if he hadn't slept in a month.

Sherlock looked like was never going to sleep again.

"Oh my-" She pulled herself off the chair as they reached her, "Are you both- What happened-"

Words failed her, as Sherlock engulfed her in his arms.

Molly gasped. Long arms wrapped around her frame so tight she could scarcely breathe. Her arms lay contort at the front of her body in shock. He was cold. Too cold. _Say it like you mean it._ His grip tightened as his head lowered, a cheek coming to the top of her head. Her brain fumbled for something to say – anything – _I love you -_ "Sherlock?"

A visible shudder coursed through his tall frame, and he didn't let go. _This was bad,_ Molly thought, _be strong._

She started to notice small words tumbling from the detective's mouth. _Sister bombs call John Redbeard murder –_ Molly's brain snapped into action. She locked her limbs together so he felt the tension, and forced her head up to look at him.

"Hey, Sherlock?" He was scanning her face, rapidly, deducing her, "You can let go… I-It's okay."

In a swift motion, he let go. He looked shocked.

Molly briefly acknowledged John, who stood as if he'd walked into something very private.

"Molly." Stated Sherlock carefully.

"What's… What's going on?"

"I thought you were going to be angry. For… The call. You're not angry."

Molly looked from Sherlock to John and back again.

"I thought you were going to die."

Then the air left her. She found herself staring at her shoes, unable to fix her eyes anywhere else. _What did he mean?_ She felt a hand on her shoulder and saw John's reassuring expression by her side. Molly steeled herself.

This was so much bigger than her.

She stood a little taller and raised her brown eyes to settle on the detectives. She could have sworn she heard thunder raging behind them. "It's okay… You don't have to explain now."

Sherlock's eyes widened and then narrowed.

"I saw the news," Molly continued softly, "221B has been exploded. Then there was the call. Then, a girl called Viola is dropped on my doorstep, injured."

He winced.

"Whatever has – is- going on, is more important than just a phone call. I'm not stupid. You, you can explain what happened to me… Just, deal with the more important things first. I- I don't mind."

Sherlock wanted to tell her that to him, this was what came first. That she came first. But he found himself holding back.

Silence overtook them for a moment, and then Molly decided to change the subject. "Who's Viola?"

"Is she okay?" John asked.

"She's in surgery- well, she's out of it, but she hasn't woken up yet. A broken rib caused some internal bleeding and they've seen to that. I worried she had had blunt head trauma, but luckily it's just a serious concussion. Her skull and brain are fine."

"Can we see her?"

There was an undeniable weight in the doctor's words, and Molly felt uneasy. Sherlock looked exceptionally pale, almost dead.

"Yes, of course… I'll show you where she is."

Together, they started to make their way down to her ward. Molly turned her head to John, "Is she a relative of Sherlock's? I don't know his family very- Erm, he mentioned the word sister- Is she his sister?"

"No," John muttered under his breath "His sister is a whole other kettle of fish…"

"She isn't English, I think she's Italian? Strange, she seemed to understand what I said to her just about, but she couldn't find most of her own words. I am guessing it was the concussion, but she's hardly strung a sentence together all day. I don't know what happened to her."

As they turned a corner, Molly was surprised to see Mycroft Holmes. He was staring at the window to the room Viola was being held in. Suit-clad, umbrella in hand.

John wondered how he had got back from Sherrinford so quickly, but dismissed the thought.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started silkily, "I believe thanks is in order."

Sherlock seemed to bristle, " _Thanks?"_

"Eurus is back in Sherrinford, she won't be hurting us anymore. You did that… Thank you."

Molly watched the brothers in wonder. Who was Eurus? Sherlock seemed darker, as if rage was starting to simmer in his stomach.

Mycroft pivoted back to the window. Blinds lay down it, but they were turned on a horizontal axis, and they could see through. "She's grown up well, I'm glad to see. I always theorised that the Holmes genes were poisonous, luckily I think that's skipped a generation." A small smile played on his lips.

Sherlock hesitated, breathed, and slowly turned his head to the window.

 _His daughter._

It was like being doused with ice water.

She looked more like him in person, he realised. Her side profile revealed a similar height of cheekbones and curve of her jaw.

She was attached to tubes, gauze tied around her head, black curly hair tied back. Her expression innocent and pained.

He couldn't deny parentage now. It screamed at him.

 _The tubes screamed at him._

A fire that had started as small embers, was starting to take light.

 _Mycroft did this to her._

"Her name," Mycroft began, slowly going to stand next to his brother, "Is Viola Seraphina Esposito. She was born in San Gimignano and moved to Florence when she was seven. Her mother is still alive, in case you were wondering. It seems Viola came to London three days ago, for a week. My people found University brochures in her things."

Molly watched them curiously, and she was concerned.

As Mycroft spoke quietly, Sherlock had begun to shake. This was _very_ bad.

 _He made her a dirty little secret._

John had tensed, seeing this as well.

 _Mycroft may as well had held a gun to her head._

"She's bright, that much I know," Mycroft continued, "I personally have paid for her attendance at some of the best institutions in Italy. My intuition is that this is how Eurus and Moriarty found-"

A fist flew. Mycroft flew back into the wall.

"Sherlock!" Yelled John, immediately springing into action.

Sherlock's shaking had exploded. He was white hot rage. "This is _your fault!"_

" _Sherlock-"_ Mycroft gasped, forcing himself to stand on his two feet.

Another fist came, "Your"- and another- "Fault!"

Mycroft slumped downwards, umbrella lifted between them.

"My _daughter_ is in there because _you_ couldn't be honest!" Sherlock yelled, _"How the fuck could you do this to me?!"_

Air left Molly's lungs.

"Sherlock, mate, calm down-"

" _You're a bastard, a cold-hearted, weak, bastard."_ Sherlock turned and with a yell, punched the wall. Twice. Cracks were heard.

"My life has been _a lie_ because of you." Sherlock hissed, and his head rested on the wall.

 _Breathe. Control._

He sagged, "You kept _my sister_ from me, _Redbeard_ from me, and _my daughter_ from me. What the _hell_ am I?"

John Watson was knelt on the ground, helping Mycroft sit up. Luckily, he seemed okay. John was surprised, Sherlock's aim had been... Poor. Maybe it was just the anger clouding his judgement. Maybe, deep down, he hadn't actually wanted to injure his brother.

Mycroft's expression portrayed a man who understood what had been coming to him. There was a reason Mycroft hadn't fought back. "I'm fine, Doctor Watson... He's in shock."

"Hey, Sherlock."

A soft voice drew Sherlock out of his blankness. It was Molly. The soft lyric of her tone made him let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. Slowly, he turned, using the wall to make sure his legs didn't cave in.

Molly's eyes were wide, tears threatening to spill. _Viola was his daughter._ The gravity of what was happening finally hitting her. _And he's had no idea._ But she remained steadfast and strong.

"Sherlock, Mycroft, John, let's go to the morgue." They all looked at her now, Sherlock's face shocked, Mycroft's dreading, John's understanding. "Sherlock needs answers. And fighting on the corridors of patients isn't going to do any good."

They all hesitated.

" _Now."_

* * *

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	3. You Should Have Known

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* * *

It was a funny set up, Molly thought, laughable- to people that didn't understand. It looked like the start of a macabre joke.

 _A Doctor, Politician, and Detective walk into a morgue._

Sherlock Holmes was seated on a high stool of a long table that held two microscopes, a neat pile of petri dishes, and files Molly had organised meticulously, pressing an ice block against his hand that he had smashed into a wall.

John, opposite, was treating a couple of cuts and bruises that belonged to Mycroft, who seemed happy to let the Doctor tend to him.

And then there was Molly, whose lab this was hers. She perched at the end of the table anxiously.

Sherlock Holmes' daughter was placed at the forefront of everyone's minds, like the eye of a storm.

Whenever Molly thought Sherlock didn't have any other surprises to give, she was always proven wrong. On the day they first met, he surprised her by asking to take a whole leg back to his flat for experimentation. Eight months later, she was surprised when the British Government had taken interest in her, only to discover it was, in fact, his brother. After two years, she had been surprised to discover he'd used drugs, and helped him get clean. He surprised her when he found a flatmate. He surprised her the first Christmas she had spent at Baker Street, when he had apologised to her. She had been shocked when he once identified a woman by _not her face._ The worst surprise had always been, and always would be, when he told her he was going to die. She was shocked when he said he _needed_ her.

Surprises had pivoted the ground they had stood on together. And she accepted the shift of orbit. When she thought about the man she had met nearly a decade before, it wasn't the man sat on the stool now.

The ever-the-bachelor-possibly-gay Sherlock Holmes, who had a daughter. Alone in a country she didn't know. In a hospital bed.

Her heart broke. The strife his brother had caused wore over Sherlock like a thick cloud.

Bringing them here now to talk, was the only thing she could think of, to maybe alleviate his suffering.

She would help him through this, no matter what came next.

Molly understood she mattered. Years of support, praise, and patience from her to him had rubbed off. Molly knew he genuinely appreciated her. He didn't love her like she loved him, but maybe… Appreciation was enough.

 _I love you._

… _Focus, Molly!_

The words stung. Stung like nettles against her skin.

 _No-_ She needed to focus on Sherlock now. Molly recognised this was so much more important than the phone call. A phone call, she had gathered, he had been forced to make to save her life. Nothing more. Yet, every time she looked at him, she heard those words.

 _I love you._

She wondered if he heard them too.

 _No,_ Molly admonished herself, _he's in shock. He has a daughter. This isn't about you and him, not tonight._

Shakily, Molly decided to fetch the four of them some water. She heard Sherlock speak. Cool and collected.

"Mycroft, Molly brought us here so you can give me answers. If you're not intending to divulge then you should leave. Clean up another mess that isn't yours to get involved with."

"This is a private matter."

"It isn't private anymore." Deadpanned John.

Mycroft sighed nonchalantly, "No, I concede, it is not."

Molly returned to the table and handed out four glasses. John offered her a small thanks, whilst Sherlock and Mycroft glared at each other.

"Molly, sit with me." Sherlock asked, turning his gaze to her, "Please."

Her hands twisted, she looked across the room and swallowed down her anxiety. Slowly, she took her place on the stool by his side. She didn't notice his gaze softening for the first time in hours as she did. He was amazed that she didn't hate him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, "I understand you keeping Doctor Watson here. But Molly Hooper- she isn't family."

Sherlock's gaze hardened, "You know that isn't true."

"Hm… Complicated little emotions, that's what Eurus said, wasn't it brother mine?"

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock let out a choked laugh, and fixed his brother with an expression of hatred, "It seems my _family_ has grown _exponentially_ over the past twenty-four hours."

Molly worried her bottom lip, nerves rising with full force. Then, she felt Sherlock's hand on her leg. She shot him a funny look, and then visibly relaxed.

 _He needs you to be strong. He trusts you. Calm down._

John, who was focused on a graze on Mycroft's collarbone now spoke for the room, "Mycroft, why don't you start with 1996?"

Mycroft winced at the anti-septic meeting his skin as he began to rally off information with about as much emotion as a brick wall. "Sherlock, you need to understand that this is more than the family keeping a secret from you. We protected you. We had to."

"Protect me from what?"

"Yourself." He shrugged, like it was obvious.

"I hardly think keeping knowledge of my parentage is protecting anyone. It didn't protect me, or her, today."

"Sherlock, when you started taking narcotics, you were young. Too young. The family was beside itself. Mummy stopped her research-"

"That wasn't because-"

"Of course it was." Mycroft's icy tone froze the room.

Sherlock was affronted. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked in deduction.

"You were meant to flourish at University- We trusted you to be in safe hands when we encouraged Oxford to accept you when you were seventeen. Instead, I found myself cleaning up your vomit the first time you nearly overdosed in the space of four months of you moving out."

John Watson's eyes widened, it was an image he couldn't picture.

"I don't see why this is relevant."

Mycroft released himself from John Watson as he finished his work, reattached the top two buttons of his shirt, and reached for his tie. "It's context, it's important."

"It's hardly the point."

The politician's face became mechanical, with weaponry at the front, "Sherlock, you were _eighteen_ when you got Maria pregnant. Addicted to narcotics. A mess. What were we meant to do? _Buy you a pram?"_

Silence.

Molly and John met eyes across the table as the shock set in. _Eighteen,_ John breathed under his breath.

Without thinking, Molly's hands went out and rested on top of Sherlock's under the table, giving it a hesitant, but reassuring squeeze. It was so alien to her she didn't see how much he relaxed. It forced his adrenaline to subside.

Mycroft paused, leant back- letting his momentary anger dissipate- and continued. "Daddy found out first, not me. A letter was sent to our address. Maria's parents had acquired it from the University. It was addressed to S Holmes. Not W. Maria didn't know your first name was William. Daddy thought it was for him and opened it without a thought." He sighed at the unconvinced glare his brother was giving him, "It _was_ an accident, Sherlock… The letter stated that you had gotten Maria pregnant and she was moving back to Italy deal with the consequences. They demanded money in compensation and didn't seem to care less if you wanted to be involved or not. Maria, like you, was accustomed to drug use. It didn't sit lightly with them."

"So her family didn't explicitly ask you to keep it secret." It was a statement.

"No," Mycroft agreed, "They thought the letter was going to you, after all."

Molly found herself speaking without realising, "Why, why didn't you tell him? He had the right to know."

"Doctor Hooper, Sherlock could scarcely make it from one week to the next. Constantly going missing for days on end. He didn't eat. He was depressed. He didn't talk- to anyone- unless they were useful to him. He was… dangerous. He wouldn't have coped with news like this."

"You don't know that." Bit Sherlock.

"Yes, brother mine. I do." Mycroft sighed, "We saw how the trauma of Eurus had affected you. This would have been worse-"

"Why?"

"Because this was _your_ fault."

Sherlock reached for his water and took a slow sip, willing the heat in his body to calm. Eurus had called him blind, only now he confronted how right she had been.

"Our parents agreed to start payments to the child. All in a separate secure bank account, out of your sight."

"When did you take over her payments?" Ventured John.

"1999, when I was promoted to a wage where I could afford them comfortably. It was best to take the stress off our parents."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, released his hand from Molly, and poised it under his chin.

"What is it you're not telling me, Mycroft?"

"Is it that obvious?"

" _Clear as day."_

"Very well," he hastened a small sigh, and clasped his hands, "I travelled to Italy, alone, after she was born. Doing the right thing and clearing a paternity test. Not that I needed to. My niece looked a lot like you when you were born. The tests came back proving your parentage without a doubt. I informed them all that you were unaware for your protection, and we made an arrangement."

Sherlock frowned in an expression that matched John's, "An a _rrangement?"_

"Viola Seraphina Esposito, around her sixteenth birthday, would be told about you. I would supply her with a file. She would decide what to do with this information."

"Five years ago," John thought, "2012… We had the blog, and the press knew anyway- One google search would have-"

"Yes, John," Sherlock continued flatly, "She didn't wish to contact me."

"It appears so." Accepted Mycroft numbly.

A moment later, a phone rang. Mycroft took the item from his blazer pocket, and weakly stood, "Please excuse me."

He left, and they heard the words, "Is Sherrinford secure?" As he did so.

A few moments of stillness passed across the room. Sherlock had sat back, the motions of processing information setting in across his sharp features, which both Molly and John recognised.

Molly wrung her hands on her lap, and nervously looked over at John.

John looked almost bemused as he spoke, "Mycroft is the shittiest big brother. I mean… Wow."

Uncontrollably, Molly's face pulled into the tiniest of smirks.

"John," She began softly, "Where on earth did you get the top?"

It was John's turn to break into the tiniest of smiles. His shirt was an oversized purple monstrosity, bearing the logo of the KISS rock band. It was just _not John Watson._

"Oh, Erm- Some NHS staff gave it to me after pulling me from a well."

Her eyes widened, "A _well?"_

"Sherlock's sister tried to drown me, where his childhood best friend had been also drowned years ago."

A thousand questions spiked in her brain. She flushed, furrowed her eyebrows.

"Oh- oh god, John." She stumbled over her words like she'd forgotten how to form a coherent sentence, "Are you- I mean, what happened? Are you okay?"

"Will you two stop blithering on I need to _think_!"

Both of their heads snapped to Sherlock Holmes, who suddenly had stood. He gave them both a hateful look, before storming into the adjacent room, slamming the door behind him.

John gave Molly a sorry look, "It's not me you should be asking."

* * *

Twenty-three minutes and forty-six seconds after Sherlock Holmes had slammed the door, it was time.

Viola Seraphina Esposito was awake.

Mycroft had reappeared, holding a sophisticated yet contempt expression on his face. It alluded to a very particular heavy presence, one which could only be associated with Mycroft Holmes.

He took a few minutes, carefully explaining to John and Molly information his teams had acquired. Firstly, his team at MI7 had easily found the location where the young adults had been held. Three men who had conducted the kidnapping had been taken in for questioning. The young adults had all been dumped back on their families doorsteps and were now being seen to in various hospitals around Greater London. He briefly alluded to the fact that Eurus using Molly's flat to drop Viola at was just another tool to disarm his brother.

Mycroft then clarified that the clean up at Baker Street had already begun, and that he would personally pay for all the damages to the flat. John wondered if this was the closest thing Sherlock was going to get to an apology, but decided best not to ask.

Lastly, he informed Molly and John that his team had contacted Viola's mother. The missing piece in his puzzle. John found himself distracted, interested in what sort of person could have unravelled his friend at such a young age. Mycroft clarified that she would be flown to England in two days' time, they'd used the explosion as an excuse to delay her arrival- Whilst actually it was a decency to allow Sherlock time to deal with the shock, and Mycroft time to deal with the mess. He didn't indicate how this woman had reacted to the news.

John found it odd. If Rosie had been involved in an incident overseas, he would have come straight away, no matter what anyone said. Yet this girl's mother was willing to wait two days. John's stomach twisted uncomfortably, it didn't sit right with him. Even if Mycroft had personally requested the wait.

Molly's phone pinged then. Luckily for them, Viola's surgeon was one of her longtime friends at the hospital. He let her know that Viola was indeed awake, and talking.

A slim sort-of smile graced Mycroft's face at the news, "I shall go to her immediately. Please fetch my brother from his sulk, he can meet her after I've done sorting necessary arrangements."

"Wait," John cut in, he met Mycroft with a military gaze, "Are you sure that you're the best person to see her first?"

"It's a necessity, Doctor Watson"

"She knows Molly- she _only_ knows Molly-"

Mycroft sneered, "What do you think I'm going to do? _Scare_ her away?"

"Yes." Deadpanned John, "She's probably gone through more trauma in the past twenty-four hours than she has in her entire life."

"Haven't we all."

"You and your attitude are not going to comfort her." John's head tilted in annoyance.

Surprisingly, it was Molly who spoke up, "Let me go with you, Mycroft. I'll sit with her whilst you talk to her."

"Is this sentimental need to comfort a stranger really that important?"

"Yes." Replied Molly and John in unison.

Mycroft glowered, twisted the grip of his umbrella in his palm, and relented, "If you insist."

* * *

John watched Sherlock anxiously. He was distracted. Pacing back and forth with his hands pressed on his temples.

Back in the unsympathetic corridor of Viola's ward, they were waiting. Waiting whilst Molly and Mycroft coaxed Viola into meeting her father. And it was agonising. The blinds, which had been open earlier, were now closed. No sounds emitted from the room. They had no idea how she was taking the news.

 _And how her father is,_ John mused, watching Sherlock carefully.

"Stop thinking loudly John." The detective snapped suddenly.

John stared, sighed, and decided to try and get Sherlock out of his own head, "Will the language barrier be a problem?"

Sherlock shot him a _you're being stupid_ look, "I speak Italian fluently. Wasn't that already obvious?"

"Er… No."

"So does Mycroft. He is a diplomat after all." He stopped pacing, for a split second, and then started again.

John folded his arms in exasperation, "How are you feeling?"

"Guilt-ridden." Sherlock's voice came out unnaturally high, the words, unnaturally quick. He chastised himself immediately. _Control. Focus._

"It's not your fault-"

"Isn't it-"

"No, Sherlock. I imagine you feel like you've been kicked in the stomach. Repeatedly." The detective's pacing stopped again, his eyes flashing over his friend and making a million conclusions, "This is completely on your parents and Mycroft... You do understand it's up to you what to do now, don't you?"

Sherlock tensed, "What do you mean?"

John spoke cautiously, "Mate, you didn't… Ask for this. For years this hasn't been your responsibility. I may be the beholder of an unpopular opinion- but you need to have everything laid out in the open- If you decide, after today, that you can't be a father to this girl… No one can blame you." He shrugged, "If you want to walk away and carry on like it's not happened. It won't be your wisest decision, I won't support you… But I'll understand."

Sherlock stilled, and his eyes slipped to the floor. He readjusted his coat absently. He knew John was right. And yet he was shocked… He hadn't even thought about this. Not for one moment, since he realised that Eurus wasn't lying. Viola was one of his life's most abject failures. His family had presumed he would never accept the child. When he was eighteen, maybe he wouldn't have. But now… He had to own up to his mistakes. He wouldn't abandon her. This total stranger, who shared his DNA. He owed her so much.

The door opened. John stood off the wall, and Sherlock's whole body locked.

First, Mycroft emerged, a pillar of authority. He bowed his head to John, and then to his brother, took out his phone, and left.

Secondly, was Molly, her gentle gaze immediately settling on Sherlock. The man who, hours before, had forced her to confess her love for him. Her eyes were gentle, sympathetic.

"Does Viola wish to see me?" Sherlock's hands positioned themselves behind his back.

Molly hesitated, but then smiled a little, "Yes."

His adam's-apple bobbed, and then he turned to John. "John, go home."

"What?"

"Go back to Rosie. She needs you."

"What about you, mate?"

John's face was as reassuring as always. One of total loyalty. It made him soften. "I'll stay at Molly's tonight,-" Molly's face widened in shock, "and will meet you at Baker Street tomorrow morning… You've done so much for me today. Please, go be with Rosie."

Everything told John to stay, his whole body fought for it. But part of him understood- Sherlock needed privacy, and he was in safe hands if Molly was around. Hell, Sherlock loved her. Molly didn't know it, but that wasn't the point. He wouldn't stray or do something irresponsible if she was around. He must've been able to see all day that John was pining for Rosie. Several times that day he worried she would have become an orphan. He was letting him go, to be a father. Somehow it felt incredibly ironic. Somehow, John knew that this was the greatest way Sherlock could say thank you.

He stood a little taller, the demeanour of a soldier at the end of war coming over his manner, and nodded, "Thanks, Sherlock."

The side of Sherlock's mouth pulled into a small smile, as he turned to the doorway.

He took a breath.

 _Into battle._

Three steps into the doorway, another through it, and then, the door closed.

* * *

Sherlock's first observation, funnily, was that this was the first time he had seen Viola's face completely. On the live stream, Viola had had a cloth wrapped inside her jaw. Then earlier, an oxygen tank. Now, nothing. They were completely bare to each other.

A weight pulled on Sherlock's chest as he stood.

 _This woman is my daughter… Viola Seraphina Esposito._

She was like him to a point, and then not. He immediately deduced her allergies, pets, the last thing she ate, and all the usual things that jumped out at him when he met a person. But this wasn't just anyone. He admired how she'd inherited his hair, eyes, and brow, yet her cheeks were softer, and her lips gentler. She was tall, like her mother was. Average build for her height, but not wiry like he was. Her skin was pale, although slightly sun-kissed from the Italian sun. He wondered if on a day she was happy she'd have a rosy hue to her cheeks.

Her mannerisms to him entering the room were expected, yet they confused his judgement of her personality. Was she like him?

Whilst he remained collected most of the time, she was practically vibrating with tension. A glazed look on her face struck him with unintelligence, but then he saw her hone back in to focus- the effect of anaesthetic wearing off. She was clever. Academic. Her hands anxiously pulled at an inch of loose thread on the hospital sheets, fraying it even more. Emotional.

In a gesture eerily like his own, her head tilted in concentration. Her blue eyes widened, narrowed, scanned up and down, and waited.

Understanding the role was his, he cleared his throat, and addressed her in clean Italian, "Ironic, isn't it, that your surname literally translates in English as being exposed. Or bastard child. It appears that this is the impasse we find ourselves in."

Nothing.

He faltered, and extended his hand to her. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

Her chin raised a little, but that was it.

She was making it hard.

Frustration fizzled inside his stomach and he forced it down as much as he could. If it was anyone else, he would snap at them. But this girl was traumatised. She didn't trust him. She didn't know him.

Sherlock withdrew his hand slowly, and met eyes with her. "I'm sorry I wasn't aware of your existence up until today."

Her bottom lip wobbled, just a fraction, she looked away, "You should have known."

Eurus' words echoed in his head, ' _No one told you, because you're incapable of the love.'_

"Yes," The detective agreed, "I should have known."

* * *

 _When John returned home, it was past four in the morning. His neighbour had been a saint to look after Rosie all day and night. She had heard that Baker Street had exploded, and offered him anything he needed. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he had almost been moved to tears with her kindness. Going to his home, he carefully got Rosie's room ready for her, put her in her cot, but… He couldn't leave her. He carried her to Mary's old nursing chair, held her to his chest, and cried._

* * *

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	4. Deer In The Headlights

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 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright to BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

Molly sighed, slipping her back lower down the wall until she met the ground. _Why aren't there any chairs around here_?. The floor was cold and unforgiving. Molly pulled her legs towards herself, out of the way of anyone who would pass, grimacing.

She was _exhausted._

Moments before, Sherlock had gone to meet his daughter in the room adjacent to her.

His daughter... It felt so strange, yet, it was fact.

She'd felt a pang in her chest as the door had shut behind her. It was an overwhelming sense of foreboding, knowing his life was changing forever, just a few steps away.

 _I love you._

 _Stop, Molly._

Six minutes later, the fluorescent posters on the opposite wall advertising the possibility of developing diabetes and going through the menopause had become boresome. Her eyes started to fall-

 _Buzz_

Jolting a little too dramatically at the sound, she let out a breath and reached for her mobile. She smiled weakly when she saw it was John.

' _Let me know if I can do anything.'_

John Watson was a saint, Molly mused. Never before had there been a man who cared so much about their resident sociopath, and there probably wouldn't be again. John had looked raw earlier, he had held a ghostly expression nearly as dire as one she had seen the day after Mary had died. It had only appeared when Sherlock hadn't been looking. Like her, he had tried to keep it together when Sherlock's crystal gaze met theirs. Molly found herself worrying if he was okay. A small voice emerged to say that if only Mary was still around this would have been easier for everyone, but she shut it away.

Mary had been the balancing point in Baker Street. She would've known exactly what to say to Sherlock and John.

Molly let out a shaky breath and returned to her phone. Turning her thoughts elsewhere before a wave of grief took over.

 _Who is Viola?_

Molly bit her lip absently as she went to google and wrote in Viola's full name. All results had nothing to do with her. Who knew that Esposito was such a common surname?

Almost subconsciously, she then found herself on Facebook and typing in the girl's name.

Nothing.

Photos of people passed through the screen. Happy and smiling. They laughed at the tired pathologist's annoyance. It was-

 _Bingo._

There she was.

Molly sat up straighter, eyes widening as she took in the woman in the photos.

Tall, beautiful, elegant, and happy. Viola Seraphina Esposito.

It was strange, Molly thought, to see someone who looked so much like Sherlock surrounded by so many friends. She had never seen a Holmes look so relaxed in a social situation. Photos upon photos of Viola met Molly's eyes. She was always laughing or grinning, cheeks rosy, light makeup upon her face and clothes framing her body with grace. On beaches, by landmarks, sat upon grass watching the world go by. She was a social butterfly. Molly didn't realise she was smiling. Flicking her hand once more, her eyes widened. Three women stood around a desk, chemistry equipment around them and all wearing safety goggles, holding flasks in the air. It was captioned with a little image of a brain. A few photos later, and one appeared of her smiling somewhere Molly recognised... Her small smile turned into an impressed grin.

 _She studies Forensic Anthropology?!_

Maybe she wasn't so different to Sherlock after all.

Time passed quickly as Molly delved more into the life of the woman who had entered her life twelve hours ago. She was so involved, it took her a moment to settle back in the present as she heard a voice nearing the door. The deep vibration of Sherlock's voice pulled her from her stupor. She closed her mobile quickly, and was halfway stood when he reappeared.

Sherlock fixed her with a funny expression. "You'll pull your back on that floor, Molly."

Of all the things she had expected Sherlock to say after his first meeting with his child, that wasn't it.

She winced as she straightened up, and brown eyes met blue. "Hi."

"Hello."

Sherlock was virtually unreadable as he spoke, "Viola wishes to speak to you quickly before we go."

Numbly, she nodded, and they both headed back in.

Viola was sat up. Who had helped her prop up the pillows? Molly thought, and then realised that it must've been her tall counterpart, who's expression looked a bit like a deer in the headlights.

Viola looked tired, flushed, and uncomfortable. Molly saw she had been crying. She wondered if Sherlock had too. Afraid of the language barrier facing them, Molly shifted on her feet absently.

"Thank you for looking after me, Molly."

Molly blinked. Viola managed a small smile despite the bleariness in her eyes. Her English was slow, but it was there. "I… You're welcome?"

"I can't speak much earlier, my head was not good. I, uh, English didn't come to me." A slightly puzzled look was on her face as she spoke slowly, clearly thinking over every word as she did.

Her tense wasn't perfect, but Molly understood. She smiled tiredly, "It's okay. Listen, Viola, you should rest."

"Sleep?"

Molly nodded. And Viola returned her smile.

"Shall I come and see you tomorrow?"

Viola's wide blue eyes lightened a fraction, like Sherlock's when they got an interesting toxicology report back. It was… Amazing. Viola was more like Sherlock now. She resonated Intelligence, despite being injured. Her expressions were similar, and maybe most special, her smile was the same. "I'd like that, Molly."

Sherlock was looking at the specimen in the hospital bed curiously, like she was that, a specimen. It made Molly uneasy again. Whatever calmness Viola exhibited towards her, she didn't know if Viola offered the same to him.

Sherlock took a slow breath and spoke to her in Italian.

Molly tried to ignore how utterly _beautiful_ it sounded. She felt a blush rising to her cheeks uncontrollably. She chastised herself immediately.

Viola answered back, in words much more clipped than the formers. Her smile gone.

Sherlock's face became numb, he nodded and then gestured to Molly that they were leaving. Molly said good night quietly, and followed Sherlock Holmes, the father, out of the door.

* * *

They didn't speak at all as they left. Wringing her hands a the hem of her jumper, Molly had tried to venture some conversation. But Sherlock had silenced her with the most intricate expression.

Sadness, confusion, frustration, and exhaustion clung to him. Was there a name to give that face? Molly didn't think there was. It was too complex for words.

London was eerily quiet as their taxi pulled up at Molly's flat. Every single sound seemed to reverberate around them with distinction. The whir of the engine, the thump of bass from nightclubs they travelled past, the hum of distant traffic noise as they got out of the car.

Molly's heart was beating fast as she trod the steps she knew very well. Sherlock walked ahead of her, belstaff blocking her view.

Sherlock stopped so abruptly she very nearly fell into him.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

Molly delicately squeezed herself around the tall man and fumbled for her keys. Sherlock's gaze had become hard as metal, as he saw Molly's door.

Dried blood on the door frame, and small marks on the door itself, the etchings of a handprint. More on the floor, by his foot. Viola's blood. He felt a pressure in his throat at the sickly sight. Sherlock was not one to recoil at the sight of blood, and yet he felt nauseous. His gaze fell to Molly's door handle. His eyes narrowed.

 _Small intrusions against the keyhole, but not the shape of Molly's key. A methodical instrument had been placed here, and tried three times before getting in. He noticed one- No, two types of strokes. He didn't need to be a consulting detective to know what it was. One was Eurus, or whoever she had used to gain access to Molly's flat and place cameras in. The next, Mycroft's agents._

As the door opened, they both entered in silence.

Molly started going about her usual routine of removing her shoes and coat. The presence of Sherlock Holmes was starting to weigh on her like an anchor in her stomach.

 _Indentations on the carpet, not in Molly's usual routine of movement. Four sizes, four people. One towards the kitchen. Careful. Haven't disturbed any furniture. Dust on two shelves been disrupted. Microphones and cameras that had been removed?_

Sherlock, despite everything, was grateful that Mycroft had dealt with the clean up at Molly's flat discretely whilst she hadn't been in.

Sherlock's eyes glanced over to the entrance to Molly's kitchen. He could see the same pot of tea he had seen on Eurus' camera still in the same spot. She hadn't moved it out of sentiment and anger, he knew. Somehow, a small pot of tea had suddenly felt like a metaphor for their complicated relationship.

A frying pan lay a couple of meters away, left on the carpet. Near it, a cloth with dried blood and a cushion. Molly had left in such a rush to help Viola, she didn't have a moment to clear the mess she had made.

"Sherlock?"

The light timbre of her voice returned him from his thoughts. Molly was stood inquisitively admiring him. He could see the nervousness radiating of her. But her eyes were warm, and strong. It gave him affirmation he didn't realise he was craving.

"Why- Why don't you take your coat and shoes off, and erm- I'll get us something to eat."

He frowned, "You're exhausted."

And she shrugged, "You are too."

The stared at each other, lingering a little longer in apprehension. Sherlock was the one to break it, turning to remove his coat.

Four minutes later, and they sat in Molly's kitchen. The clock read 5:32am. Between them on a red plate laid two pieces of toast. Neither made a move towards it.

 _Say it like you mean it._

Molly knew Sherlock well enough to know that emptiness on his face was a common thing. But he didn't look empty now. In fact, he looked almost as if the world was spinning inside his head.

 _I love you._

She let out a small sigh and reached a hand out across the table.

"Talk to me."

Three words that emanated so much. Sherlock's stomach clenched as a wave of foreign emotions hit him. Molly Hooper was someone he trusted with his life. He trusted her with his thoughts, more than most people. Possibly, even more than John. She wouldn't judge him.

"She hates me."

"Viola?"

He glanced at her in confirmation.

Molly's brows furrowed in thought, "Are you… You're sure?"

"She attempted to be civil. And was almost convincing. But her hands betrayed her. They moved with strength and anger despite the fact she was dosed on painkillers and anaesthetic. Every time I spoke, they clenched. It's a trait I've seen in criminals after I've trapped them. She hates me."

"I, erm… Sherlock, she must be very confused. Her whole world has been tilted on its axis overnight. I wouldn't hold it against her."

"I'm not," A brief flash of anger appeared, but it dissipated into tiredness, "Christ, what a mess."

"It's okay… I'm here."

Blue eyes met brown once more. Sherlock didn't realise, for the first time in hours, that his lips had upturned a small smile.

"Viola is under the impression that I'm a bad person. She sees a fake death, crimes on my doorstep, drug use, abandoning her mother on her own... She doesn't like her mother."

Molly tilted her head, "Oh?"

"She didn't make eye contact with me when she mentioned her. First, I theorised it was because of betrayal. But I was mistaken. The inflection of her voice betrayed a bad relationship. Something deep and raw. If she thinks I left her on her own, and then they don't agree, one could assume-"

"-That she blames the lack of you for their problems."

"Mmm."

"It was barely a relationship, Molly." Sherlock started in a rational and distant tone. "Maria was a troubled woman. I used her because she hated the world as much as I did. It was… Experimental."

"What do you mean?"

"An experiment of intimacy. There was her. Then after her, a man studying Fine Arts." Molly's eyes widened, Sherlock didn't react to it. "I wanted to see if intimacy would make the world less noisy. It didn't. I had a daughter because of my own pride, my own need to experiment with people." He stopped, thought, and then met eyes with her, cutting like a knife. "Molly, you accused me of using you as an experiment. You're wrong."

The sudden change in topic dropped like a tonne of bricks. Molly's jaw dropped uncomfortably under his gaze.

"Sherlock, I-"

"You're nothing like them-"

"Sher-"

"No, let me explain."

* * *

Despite sunlight ebbing though cream curtains as London started to rise from it's slumber, they slept.

Detective and Pathologist, side by side.

Questions had been answered, Molly had listened, and Sherlock had been honest about Eurus and Sherrinford. Especially, about Molly and the phone call.

Total honesty.

Yet, he hadn't felt happy.

He hadn't communicated what he wanted. Molly had looked… Defeated. He had started out with strong intentions, but Eurus' words about being incapable of love rang around his head. And suddenly, he found himself incapable of explaining himself, of saying categorically that he wanted her. It had seemed wrong somehow.

" _I don't love you, Molly. I can't do that."_

 _A small intake of breath, and a glance away- Be strong, Molly. Please be strong.-_ "… _I know."_

" _But this isn't a bad turn of events. Eurus had a point to make, and she did. She managed what Moriarty didn't. She made me confront how much you care for me. I see now."_

" _And- And what does that mean? To you?"_

 _A thousand words rushed through his head. Yet the ones that came out were just the tip of the iceberg where Molly Hooper stood._ _"...I appreciate you more than you know."_

An hour later, exhaustion overtook them. Eyes carried unspoken words. They crossed into unknown territory that night; Never had they slept in the same bed. After the fall, Sherlock had come to her three times in total. On those nights, Molly let him take her bed for a rare night of comfort, whilst she took the settee. Tonight, however, she knew he couldn't be alone. He didn't tell her that. But he didn't need to.

They slept on opposite ends of the mattress, facing away from each other. Sherlock hadn't expected to sleep. Yet, he did.

Later, he would come to realise that he had broken Molly's heart that night. He broke her heart, by confessing- to the best ability he could- that he cared for her more than anyone else.

 _I don't love you, Molly. I can't do that._

He said that to be honest. He had been so close to explaining that, despite this, he wanted a relationship with her, but he hadn't. This was the pivotal moment, where things could have gone so differently. He could have been more human. He could have held her, kissed her, and _showed_ her what he meant even if he couldn't voice it. It would have taken a few seconds to elaborate that he didn't believe in love, but that he believed in her. Why hadn't he said that?

Love was an abhorrent enigma that laid between them.

And, as Sherlock found out, miscommunication was the biggest factor wherein relationships failed.

The next morning, unaware of Molly's broken heart, he made a mistake that would haunt him forever.

* * *

Baker Street was a hole of what it once was.

"Christ..." John muttered under his breath.

Mountains of papers and debris littered the floor. Furniture lay broken and unturned. Sunlight poured through the broken windows of 221B Baker Street, mixing with dust and the remnants of old cases and adventures, laughter and tears.

John had to admit it was a miracle the structure of the flat had stayed mostly intact. These Victorian buildings seemed to prevail like the British resolve did.

As he picked up a broken microscope from the floor, his mind wandered to Sherlock. He hadn't heard from him or Molly since he left them in the hospital in the night. He dreaded how Sherlock had been coping with the newfound existence of Viola. He certainly didn't have the foggiest about how the night had gone with Molly.

Had he told her how he felt?

Familiar footsteps trod against the stairs, and John held his breath unconsciously as Sherlock walked in.

Sherlock seemed… Fresh, at least. He wore different clothes to the day before and had an air about him that had suggested he had got some sleep at least.

Sherlock, ignoring John, scanned the room with interest and suddenly grinned.

 _"Billy!"_

"What?"

Sherlock excitedly pushed over John's chair that lay in ruins, crouched to the ground, and pulled his skull from beside the fireplace. Sherlock let out a chuckle and held the skull to the air, like a trophy. Then he threw it, caught it, and looked at it with amazement. "Well old chap, seems you're as strong as ever."

"I see you've slept." Commented John idly.

Sherlock let out a hum but kept his gaze focused on the skull, "It's unharmed, John. It's just as it was."

"I can't say the same for your violin, though."

Sherlock frowned, and suddenly saw the remnants of the object in question. A few twisted strings lay idly next to a charred shoulder rest. The detective shrugged, "Mycroft will pay for a new one."

John laughed, "Will he now?"

"He has to. Can't leave his unreliable brother without music to relax him, can he?" There was a heat underlying his words.

John shook his head a little, and addressed his friend who had started moving around his flat to discover what had remained intact.

"How was it last night?"

"With Viola?" A cloud of dust blossomed as Sherlock blew the mantle.

"Yes, Sherlock- with Viola."

He paused and wrinkled his nose as the debris hit it. "She was civil."

"That all?"

"She isn't an entirely boring person," Sherlock stated, "She's more like me then she probably would like to be."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"And how was she… With you?"

John saw him hesitate. "She doesn't trust me. But I don't expect her to. She's an adult and can think for herself. She doesn't _need_ a father figure, John."

John sighed, "…She was that bad then."

"I hardly expected to her start hugging me and calling me dad, did I?" There was an element of loss in his tone that didn't go amiss. He continued bluntly, "I'll keep seeing her, anyway. Maybe we can come to sort of mutual agreement about how to carry out familial social conventions before she leaves the country."

The Doctor listened to his friend carefully. Although Sherlock sounded clinical, John knew when there was weight behind his words. Sherlock wasn't as much in a state as he had worried, but John knew he wasn't voicing how he really felt.

A few minutes passed and they worked around the flat in companionable silence. John smiled lightly as he saw Sherlock pull up their bull's head from the rubble, and John returned the headphones to its head.

"How was your night with Molly?"

Sherlock stepped carefully over books on the ground and reached for the hook on the wall. "Fine."

John glowered as he lifted the deerstalker from the ground- _How the hell did that manage to survive?_ "Just fine?"

"I told her about Sherrinford. We had toast. We slept. Then I left this morning and she went to work, even though I advised against it on three hours sleep."

John frowned, and turned to Sherlock, hands on his hips. His lips pursed a little and his brow narrowed. "Spit it out."

Sherlock pivoted, "Spit what out?"

"Sherlock Holmes, yesterday she told you she loved you. Yesterday, you admitted to me you wanted a more intimate relationship with her. You've never done that before, with anyone. And, I know when you're hiding something. What happened last night?"

Sherlock shrugged, muttering quickly, "It's not last night you should be asking about-"

"What?"

"Nothing, John."

John glared.

"I don't wish to discuss it now. John! Stop looking at me like that."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed, "Like what?"

"Like you… _Know_ something. Like you can comprehend anything in that tiny brain of yours!" Sherlock spat the words out like fire.

Three knocks suddenly sounded on the ground. Both men turned and were greeted with Mycroft Holmes in the doorway. The knocks had come from his umbrella on the floor. Mycroft sneered, "I would have used the door handle, but it seems it has come off its hinges."

A swell of anger hit John suddenly, and he was shocked by it. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive Mycroft for keeping so many secrets from Sherlock. A small bruise had emerged overnight on the politician's cheekbone. John subconsciously thought it was not enough.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"Three things," Began the politician, slowly making his way through the doorway, clearly trying to tread in the cleanest areas, "Firstly, I spoke to Scotland Yard, they won't be taking statements from you. Eurus remains a cold case, as far as the police are concerned."

Sherlock bristled, "You still want to pretend she's dead?"

"Just to those who can use it against us, brother mine."

John watched the brothers carefully.

"Please, carry on." John muttered sarcastically.

"Secondly, our parents are coming-"

Sherlock's eyes widened-

"-It's time to be honest with them, at least."

"They're going to probably murder you, you know." John cut in, folding his arms. "You've had them thinking Eurus has been dead for years."

"They won't murder me Watson, spare me the theatrics." He rolled his eyes, "Sherlock-"

"-No."

"You haven't even let me finish-"

"The answer is _no."_

"Okay then, enlighten me."

Sherlock stiffened, "You want me to not mention Viola to them for now. To keep her a secret. I won't do it. They lied to me about her as much as you did."

"You do realise," Lamented the elder brother, "That having their daughter come back to life, and finding out their son knows about their hidden grandchild may be a bit _too much_?"

"Well, you didn't give me the decency of giving me the news in doses did you, Mycroft." Sherlock pulled a mocking shock expression, "Or-" he gasped, "What if there is _more_? My evil twin? Your old pet rat is actually our auntie? Mrs Hudson is actually-"

"You're acting childish, Sherlock."

Sherlock held in a breath and gave his brother a dark look as he spoke with a levelled confidence that rivalled even that of the British Governments.

"No, I'm acting as _a father_. And I refuse to have my _daughter_ hidden anymore."

Mycroft stopped, scanned his brother up and down curiously, and then stood back. He was clearly shocked at his need to protect the young woman, but he reigned it in. He didn't want to give his brother the satisfaction.

It was John, who looked proud at his friend, who broke the silence, "And your last point, Mycroft?"

"Ah," His mouth formed into a thin line, "We have a problem."

"What sort of problem?" Enquired the younger.

"Viola, this morning, has requested she stays with Doctor Hooper after she is discharged from the hospital. She's made a remarkable recovery, despite her injuries only being minor. I imagine she'll be released tonight."

John stepped closer to Mycroft and narrowed his eyes. "And why is that a problem?"

"Because," Mycroft slowly tilted his head towards his brother, "Molly said no."

John's face contorted in confusion. "Why did she say no?" He turned his head to Sherlock, he was refusing to make eye contact with either of them. "Sherlock, why did she say no?" He dropped his arms to his sides and gave his friend a knowing look, " _Shit_ Sherlock what have you done?"

"Doctor Watson, Molly informed me."

Sherlock's eyes leapt angrily to Mycroft, "She informed _you?"_

Mycroft's eyebrows raised a little in amusement, "She was _very_ confused and _very_ angry. And, we all know how formidable she can be when she's mad at Sherlock Holmes. Even for such a _small_ woman." He turned to John again, stating slowly and smugly, "Doctor Watson, she informed me that Sherlock has told her categorically he doesn't and cannot love her- and yet, he still tried to kiss her this morning."

Silence.

"You _what?!"_

* * *

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	5. Mannerisms and Genomes

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* * *

 _Mycroft's eyebrows raised a little in amusement, "Molly was very confused and very angry. And, we all know how formidable she can be when she's mad at Sherlock Holmes. Even for such a small woman." He turned to John again, stating slowly and smugly, "Doctor Watson, she informed me that Sherlock has told her categorically he doesn't and cannot love her- and yet, he still tried to kiss her this morning."_

 _Silence._

"You _what_?!"

A proverbial pin could have fallen onto the ash on the floor.

"Sherlock." John had turned an embarrassing shade of red, lips protruding in anger. His head jutted up unnaturally to meet the detectives.

Robotically, Sherlock pivoted. "John, straining your neck like is only going to lead you to-"

"Don't make me force you to talk, Sherlock-"

"Be my guest." Mycroft mused silkily.

A finger then jolted towards the British Government, "Don't make me turn on you too Mycroft, because I will."

Sherlock smirked.

"No- _No._ Wipe that smirk of your face and tell me exactly what you've done."

The detective's cheek twitched, "I think Mycroft has clarified the situation perfectly."

"No he hasn't! Tell me what's happened. For God's sake-"

Sherlock's arms suddenly flew out to his sides, "This isn't your business, John! It isn't your business either, Mycroft- _stop grinning!_ You're the instigator of this mess!"

"Sherlock, you have a daughter in hospital. Out of all the times to try and start kissing your resident pathologist, I don't think this was the most opportune moment."

Sherlock groaned through gritted teeth, "I had a lapse of judgement."

John folded his arms, "Kissing Molly was a _lapse of judgement_?"

"What- _No_! Just," Sherlock span around, "I've had enough!"

In a swift motion, the detective was at the other end of the flat, whipping his scarf around his neck.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John called. Sherlock ignored him. "I know you're stressed. We've all been through a hell of a lot. I know you're still in shock about Viola coming into your life-" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Please, I won't judge you. I know things are… Complicated, right now."

The detective stilled and gazed at John with a face that spoke so many emotions John didn't quite know how to react to it.

"I didn't mean to upset her."

Mycroft's smirk dissipated. His eyebrows raised.

John's tension seemed to drop, and his hand went up to rub his temple, "I believe you."

Sherlock stared intensely. "…I need a distraction. My brain is running a million miles a minute."

John didn't know what was more concerning; the fact Sherlock wanted to get leave or the fact he was talking about how he felt.

To Mycroft's trepidation, John found himself offering a weak smile, "What are you going to do?"

"Lestrade must have an active case going on somewhere." Sherlock reached over for his coat.

"Sherlock, I must interject," Cut in Mycroft, "We have our parents to see to."

"They can wait."

"No, _this_ takes priority-"

"Mycroft," John warned, "They can wait."

The politician glowered from Detective to Doctor and back again. John's glare was so intense it managed to blow dust on the fabric of his own aristocracy.

With a curt nod to John, Sherlock turned on his heels and left the remnants of his flat.

Mycroft sighed profusely, "I'll make sure he's being watched." He turned a steely eye to the Doctor, "I do hope you realise that my brother is in a compromised state at the moment. You letting him wander off isn't going to benefit anyone."

"A compromised state?" John ran a hand through his hair before speaking in a voice considerably deeper than before, "His life has completely turned upside down. I will never ever forgive you for keeping his child from him. His sister from him. It's your fault-"

"Doctor Watson-"

"I don't care about what jobs you need to attend to. Sherlock comes first. Did you see what he just did? He _told us_ that his brain was in overdrive. He basically laid out the fact he is _overwhelmed_ and you know what? That never happens. _Never._ You have royally cocked up, you know that don't you?"

"I wouldn't call protecting my brother from resorting to drug use so violent he ends up on a slab 'royally cocking up'."

John bit back a harsh reply and placed his arms solidly by his sides. "We need to protect him. For his daughter and for Molly as much as himself. Whatever has happened between him and Molly needs to be fixed. He relies on her as much as me if not more so. She's… She's his rock."

"Sherlock doesn't do relationships, Doctor Watson."

John sighed, "But Molly isn't like that- She isn't a _relationship-_ Not to him. She's his lifeline. His home."

Mycroft let out a hum, that John decided was in agreement. "There is something we can do."

"What?"

"Well," Mycroft's eyes lit up with an intelligent light, "You have a spare room, don't you?"

John frowned, "I don't follow."

"Would you consider Viola Seraphina as a temporary lodger?"

* * *

Sherlock winced against the harsh sunlight and the harsher wind that accompanied it. Sherlock emerged from an alley into a small opening that gave way to the Thames and leant against the railings. Quickly, he reached into his pocket and produced two nicotine patches. He made quick work of them under his shirt. Only then did he realise he was shaking.

 _Control. Focus your movements. Breathe._

His hands gripped the railings in front of him, and he inhaled London's thick air. Images of Molly crying filled his head.

 _I don't love you._

Everything- Redbeard, Victor, Eurus, Viola, had led up to the point where he had been weak.

Weak to the point of recklessness.

A reaction to trauma.

Molly deserved better. He had failed.

Venturing into unknown territory of sentiment with Molly was a daunting prospect.

Yet, here he was.

Deep water up to his shoulders.

Wishing he had stopped her crying.

* * *

 **That Morning:**

There they slept, Detective and Doctor, side by side.

Dreams dawned as the sun rose.

 _Rain fell. Heavy. Deep water! Sherlock groaned and dredged himself from the sodden ground. He pulled a needle from his neck. Bleary. He was in a well._

Sherlock twisted.

 _The wind roared violently. It was cold. Water. Everywhere. Rising. A scream. Viola gripped at his side. Blood on her head. Horror exploded in his eyes._

His breathing quickened. The twisting became continuous.

 _They fought for a way out. Nothing. Look up. Eurus peered over the edge. She smiled. Another scream. Victor stood in water up to his knees. "Redbeard. Help me." Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. They would die if he didn't get them out._

"Vic… Water-"

With a groan, Molly turned over. She opened her weary eyes, blinked, and then they grew into worried orbs bearing into the man beside her. "Sherlock?"

" _Eurus!" He yelled. Water raised. The East wind blew. Victor shrieked. Sherlock lifted him into his arms. He couldn't lose him again. Viola shouted out. Sherlock span. Molly tried to stand. Chained to the ground._

Sherlock was sweating, contorting, breathing erratically. Molly felt panic rising within her. She pushed herself to her knees, cold hands going to his shoulder, "Sherlock- Wake up-"

 _A cold hand on his shoulder. Molly stood. Gripping onto Sherlock's side. Water became higher. Suffocating. "Help!" Eyes widened. Eurus grinned. Moriarty appeared from blackness by her side. "Oh, don't look afraid pet. You've died before, remember? What's worse… Falling or drowning?"_

"N-No! Mor-"

Molly tried to shake him.

 _The ground shook. Water raised to their chests. They were going to die. Moriarty laughed. Eurus laughed. Sherlock screamed._

A shout pierced through the room.

" _Let me save them!" "You're incapable of saving them, Sherlock." Viola started to laugh. Moriarty cackled. Mycroft was last. Dry in the rain. Inbetween the sister and the criminal. He shrugged, raised a hand to his lips. "Shhhhh…."_

An arm thrashed. Molly tried to hold him steady. "Sherlock, it's Molly. Wake up- Come on."

 _Deep water. Neck high. Coughing. Screaming._

Molly flinched, "Sherlock, please-"

 _Blackness. Wind. Sinking. Falling. Deeper. Victor. Viola. Molly-_

Sherlock threw himself upright, a strangled cry exploded. Molly's hands remained tight on his shoulders. Eyes flew open.

"Hey- Hey, Sherlock? Look at me. Look at me please."

His hands grasped at hers.

The room span. Bile formed in the back of Sherlock's throat and he fought against it. _Breath. Control. Focus._

"You're okay, Sherlock-"

Blue eyes met brown. The next moment would forever remain a blur. Adrenaline pumped through his body. _Molly's safe. She's safe._

He moved. He kissed her. Grasped the back of her head. Held her closer. Closer. _She's here. She's real. Eurus didn't take her away._ He didn't feel her move. He didn't have to. She felt real. Soft skin, soft lips, tears-

Suddenly, reality hit. The adrenaline vanished.

He had kissed Molly.

Pressing his forehead to hers, he let out a ragged breath.

 _Tears?_

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the back of her head. Hands on his chest pushed him away. He opened his eyes.

She was crying. Sherlock tried to read her face, and answers spun into the air like a rocket. _Fear confusion anger hatred sadness betrayal-_

"Molly-"

She stared at him through sodden eyelashes. "Y-You said you don't love me."

Moriarty's laugh rang through his head.

His heart pounded against his rib cage violently. This was wrong. "I don't-"

"Then why did you kiss me-" She sobbed, "Why would you do that to me?"

Being rational failed him. The hurt in her stabbed him, repeatedly. "Wait-"

She stood of the bed as quickly as she could, "Don't."

"You don't understand-"

"Get out."

"Molly-" He pulled himself to his feet, following her.

"Sherlock, you _know_ I love you." She walked through the flat, hands in fists, "I can live with you not loving me. I can. I love _you_ enough to accept that. I would do anything for you. _Anything._ Yet… you take my heart and twist it."

Sherlock span her, grasping her arms. "Molly-"

"I know you're traumatised. But… Bad dreams don't excuse kissing people!"

"You're not people-"

"S-Sherlock, please," Another sob escaped her throat, "Don't patronise me."

His brain swam with so many words he couldn't make them into sounds anymore.

"I… It's so hard, to be the mature one. To let Viola take priority, although I know she should be. _I know._ But I can't stop hearing it-" He blinked at her, horror on his face, "All I can hear is you telling me you love me. And it _hurts_."

 _Emotional context Sherlock, it destroys you._

Her confession did nothing to slow down the frivolity of his brain.

"Say something." Her brown eyes bore into him, begging for a single ounce of reassurance.

"I- I need you, Molly."

She turned her head away and wiped her eyes, "It's not the same, Sherlock. ...No- I'm sorry. I can't expect you to love me. It's not you, is it- You don't love people like that."

 _You're incapable of the love._

He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted so desperately to stop her tears. He felt so… Ashamed. Was that it? Was he ashamed?

"I guess it's just fact." She walked over to her settee, sat down, and placed her head in her hands, "I'm an idiot. I broke up my _engagement_ for you-"

"You what?"

 _Silence._

Molly Hooper had been a staple in Sherlock's life for almost a decade. He knew her more than he knew most people. …Had he really missed that?

"God," She let out a shaky sob, "Sherlock you don't have to pretend you don't know. I bet you deduced it months ago... Forget it. …You don't love me. It doesn't matter." Another sob left her, "I'm sorry- I'm sorry, you have a daughter and you don't need this, you don't need me-"

"Molly."

"Please leave. Go and deal with the more important things. Please." Her voice cracked.

There was nothing he could say. Words failed him. The ones he found, were not the ones he wanted. "I… I'm sorry I kissed you. I didn't intend to."

She looked at him through misplaced hair, betrayal exploding from her, "I guess you didn't."

"I, I _do_ care about you-"

"Please, please don't."

A pause. "I'll see myself out."

Two minutes later the door closed.

The click of the lock cemented all the last ounce of hope she had for her and Sherlock Holmes.

Molly Hooper collapsed in on herself. She grieved for the man she loved. She sobbed.

* * *

England was strange. Cold, grey, and unforgiving. An alien landscape lined with tarmac, skyscrapers, and far too many taxis.

Viola huffed and pulled the poor excuse for a blanket closer to herself. She couldn't wait to be discharged. The Doctor's had said hopefully before the day was out. The room was becoming incredibly boring.

At least, Viola was grateful that the anaesthetic induced fog had started to lift in her brain.

Thumbing the section of broken thread on her bedding absently, she started to go over the events that had led her to this point.

First the letter. Seven weeks ago. From the Royal College of Pathologists in London. They'd taken interest in her research paper submitted for a youth research project engaging Forensic Anthropology. They invited her to come to talks about Migrant Identification in cold cases needing international communication. It had been an _honour._

Viola Seraphina, the _ragazza_ from San Gimignano, off to the Royal College of Pathologists at only twenty-one, because they thought her research mattered.

A dark cloud emerged.

 _Had it all been a ruse to get me into the country?_

Viola fought down a wave of nausea.

It wasn't surely… She had spoken to a member of the faculty staff to sort her visit. She had seen the list of events she would be attending on a public website.

 _Surely not?_

The man with the umbrella had described her kidnappers boss as a psychopath, a genius. Uncontrollably, she had to push away the sound of how _interesting_ that was. She needed to remember what they had done.

One minute she had been in her hotel. The next, she was trapped, with strangers who looked similar to her. A camera in front of them. Accompanied by three men, all holding a gun in one hand, a knife in the other-

"Buongiorno!" A feminine voice called.

Viola shook her head, regretting it as her head throbbed at the movement.

A stout nurse trotted into the ward and went to pick up Viola's file from the bottom of the bed.

"Sorry, that's all the Italian I know," She laughed, "Right, can I take your blood pressure?"

Viola frowned, picking apart the older woman's words. "Yes." She offered her arm, hoping that's what she had meant.

Luckily, it was. Viola watched with interest as the nurse pulled some wired fabric around her arm and set the small machine to work.

"My name is Nadia," The nurse started, "How are you doing?"

"I, er-" She frowned, _what was the English word for nightmares?_ She knew she'd been troubled all night and day with post-traumatic stress of some sort- _Be clinical and sort it quickly-_ "Sleep has been… interrupted?"

"Hmm, I heard you went through some awful trauma… I'm surprised the police haven't been in to gather a statement from you yet."

 _I'm lost now… Why does she talk so fast? Police?_

Viola stared at her, frustration visible.

"Oh, sorry," Nadia lamented, removing the machine from her arm "The only Italian nurse on this floor isn't in until later. Erm," She pushed the machine away and jotted a quick note on the girl's file, "Are you doing okay? I can organise someone to see you… To talk? Before you're discharged tonight."

Viola thought, and tilted her head to see the nurse more clearly, "A psychopath?"

The nurse laughed, loudly.

Viola scowled.

"No, honey, a _psychologist_. Where did you learn a big English word like that?" She grinned at the blue-eyed girl, but the condescending glare she got back wasn't an affirming one- Viola's blue eyes pierced hers, her own faltered at the sight, "I can ask for a counsellor to see you today? See if we have anyone bilingual- Sure we have someone."

 _Better get professional help quick so this doesn't become a long-term thing._ Viola nodded, the gist of her words clear although most were a blur.

The nurse smiled again. "I'll be back with your medication in half an hour."

Viola let out a sigh of relief, grateful to be alone.

That was the moment Mycroft Holmes decided to walk in.

Mycroft Holmes had never been good with children. Luckily, in his job it was something he rarely came across. A diplomat's work involved at most rare conversation with middle-aged politicians and never getting his hands dirty. Despite being well aware that Viola Seraphina did in no way constitute a child, his physical reaction to her indicated as such.

It was like walking in on Sherlock Holmes, as a teenager, after a tantrum.

Viola pouted at the strange man with the umbrella.

"Signorina Esposito, you look… Restored this afternoon." He addressed her in Italian, "May I call you Viola?"

"Depends who's asking." She met him with a steely gaze, cocking an eyebrow.

Mycroft's cheek twitched, "Don't you remember?"

"You're the man who tried to make excuses for my biological father last night, despite his presence being what landed me kidnapped, and then with internal bleeding and a concussion. You're the man who had my phone stripped for 'security reasons', despite the fact I'm not even a British citizen." Her words were fiery.

"Viola Seraphina," Mycroft started, "I am your uncle, Mycroft Holmes. We clarified this yesterday. Did you forget?"

As his words were voiced, the confidence in her glare had fizzled. She paled. Her brow knitted together in annoyance, "…I can't help anaesthetic negating my neural circuits."

Mycroft could have laughed out loud. He found himself biting his cheek to stop himself. She was a Holmes through and through. Her feisty retorts and glares. They were like his brothers. Like their mothers. Suddenly, he felt a pang of regret. But he fought it down.

He _had_ done the right thing by his brother. One day he would understand.

Placing his umbrella against a wall, he walked over to her and sat on the singular chair by the window.

"Have you been introduced to Doctor John Watson?"

* * *

It was past ten o'clock when Sherlock trod the paths he knew to John Watson's home. A house that had once occupied a family, now a single father and daughter.

He had had a successful day where crime was concerned. He'd caught two thieves and a killer before a murder was committed.

Twice, Lestrade had tried to check on him. Lestrade had been witness to the fall out from Eurus' schemes at Musgrave Hall and Sherrinford. He's ignored him both times. Sherlock to get away from everyone's insistence on discussing sentiment and huge life disturbances. He didn't want to be interrogated by the Detective Inspector on the matter.

Sherlock's knew John would have many questions about Molly and Viola. Maybe, if he was rude enough, John would just let him be alone.

Locating the spare key from under a rock, he made quick use of the door.

He frowned as he quietly slipped into the hallway.

He could hear _laughing._

 _Two people. No, three people. Rosie gurgled. Four. The scent of lavender indicates Mrs Hudson. John's shoes are in the usual spot. Strange bag on the stairs. Foreign traveller. European. Scuffs on wheels indicate a person of 5"8 height. Colour indicates-_

Oh.

Silently, Sherlock walked around the hallway to their living room.

Four faces turned towards him.

Mrs Hudson, John, Rosie… and Viola.

He barely had a chance to register it before he was tackled by the matriarch of Baker Street. She grasped him tightly, pulling her small frame against his chest. "Oh Sherlock, I'm so happy you're alright. You've had John in such a tizzle!"

Sherlock let go of her, but she insisted on being close enough to hold his strong hands in hers. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. It appears me and John have broken the terms of our tenancy agreement. …No bombs."

She giggled and patted his chest, "It's not my first explosion dear, and it won't be my last."

He frowned.

"Anyway," Mrs Hudson shrugged, "Mycroft is paying for the renovation. He has even offered an extension should I want it. That boy… All money and no heart. You'd figure he could just say sorry."

Sherlock's frown deepened, and then he realised that she knew what had happened. She clearly knew who Viola was. He wondered who had told her. Idly, he hoped it had been John.

"My brother is an astute man, Mrs Hudson."

"Awful business about that sister. And, I'm sorry about your friend, Victor, was it?"

Sherlock was stunned. He suddenly realised that she was the only person who'd offered him condolences about his friend's murder.

She came towards him, and Sherlock recognised the motion of another on-coming hug. This time, he found it didn't repulse him so much. He leant towards her level, and her head went to the side of his head.

"Viola is lovely. I know it's hard, but please try to accept her." The elderly lady whispered into his ear, "She is so much like you."

Sherlock didn't react visually, but he felt comfort with her words.

Mrs Hudson, happy she had said her piece, relented her hold on the detective.

He turned and met contact with John, ignoring Viola's inquisitive steely gaze on him.

"Hi mate, I hope you don't mind taking the settee."

His eyes flicked to Viola. She still had gauze on her head, although now she'd let her black curls loose they fell over it. He could see that she was still in discomfort from her ribs. She nursed a cup of peppermint tea in her hands from one of Mary's old mugs.

"It's fine."

"Lock!"

Heads turned to Rosie on the floor, she smiled sleepily and raised her hands towards the detective, opening and closing them over again.

Sherlock found a small smile approaching his lips. He bent down and picked the girl up, she gurgled happily in his embrace. "Rosamund, isn't it past your bedtime?"

She proceeded to blow a raspberry at him. John and Mrs Hudson laughed.

Toddler in his arms, he found himself looking at Viola again, he met his stare cautiously. Briefly, he wondered what she had been like at Rosie's age.

Viola found herself flawed at the image of this man, her biological father, speaking to this little toddler with affection. This wasn't who her mamma had described. …Who was Sherlock Holmes? He had been so cold and clinical the night before. She had seen his effort, but everything had been so guarded. This moment, where his walls dropped, it opened her head to a torrent of thoughts.

Sherlock swallowed, ignoring Rosie who had begun pulling on his hair. He was nervous, knowing this was the first time he had interacted with his offspring in the presence of John. It had been easier with Molly. He pushed it down.

Surprisingly, Viola broke the silence, addressing him in lyrical Italian, "What's the most interesting skeleton you've ever come across?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes cautiously, "Why do you ask?"

"I research Forensic Anthropology. John said in-" She grimaced, "-Albeit a terrible attempt to communicate with me with the language barrier- that you've seen a lot of bodies, and skeletons. I'm interested."

John and Mrs Hudson smiled at each other knowingly, despite not understanding their words. Sherlock was unaware they'd suggested Viola break the ice this way. It was working.

The consulting detective admired the specimen in front of him. She _was_ interested. It vibrated of her. It was the first time he realised they shared any common ground, despite mannerisms and genomes.

Gently, Sherlock placed Rosie on the floor and took the seat adjacent to Viola. He remained halted and stoic in his movements. He raised his hands and placed them under his chin. And began to speak.

* * *

 **A review box with your name on it? How cool is that!  
**

 **Thanks again for your continued support!**

 **Next update will be at the latter half of the week due to exams. :-)**

 **E**


	6. Call Me Zephyrus

**AN- After a longer wait, here is a longer update!**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

It was peculiar, Sherlock thought, how he felt like he was analysing a criminal when he watched his daughter.

Unconsciously, Sherlock observed Viola's every movement. She held that quality that he had seen in the more intelligent criminals he had come across; incandescence in subtilty. He found he had a _need_ to understand her.

He had been affirmed somewhat, in their mutual interest of the macabre. The hours they had in Italian spent discussing his cases- more importantly, the corpses- had peered through the hovering tension. But, the conversation had died, and the awkwardness was starting to study them with expectant eyes. John had taken Rosie to bed, and Mrs Hudson had bid them farewell. Now, it was just the two of them. Father and daughter.

Viola raised a dark eyebrow, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He frowned, "With what expression do you reference?"

Her face was inquisitive. "Like you're trying to discover everything about me. Probably the same way you look at serial killers."

"Viola," Sherlock started pointedly, "A mere two days ago, I was childless. Now, I'm quite the opposite. You must concede that deducing you is something I can't avoid."

She wasn't impressed by his answer. "Deducing? ...What's that?"

"Observing beyond the realms of the _general_ population."

The word general fell from his lips with venom, or arrogance, Viola wasn't sure. _Be careful, the man's interesting but you can't trust him. He landed you in this situation._

Sherlock saw her cheek clench with anxiousness.

"Why don't you trust me, Viola?"

She blinked at him, affronted. Her arm subconsciously went to her right side, where her rib had been cracked in protection. _Or a reminder._

"I don't know you. You're a stranger."

"You do know me," Sherlock's hand gripped the side of his chair, "Mycroft gave you a file."

She winced. _So he knows._

"When you were sixteen," Sherlock continued, "You've known about my existence a lot longer than I have of yours. Five years in fact. Yet you didn't contact me."

Her heart started to thump rapidly against her ribs, "Sherlock, don't place the blame on me for not knowing-"

"I wasn't-"

"I had to protect myself."

"From what?"

Sherlock felt a rush hit him, as he realised he was finally starting to break through the armour she had around herself. This intensely clever young adult tried to be polite. But he _knew_ she didn't like him.

Nervously, she had started to bite her lip. There was so much this man didn't deserve to know. The fact she found herself answering his question stunned her.

"From a father who jumped off buildings to destroy criminal masterminds. From a mother who has never managed to keep her drug addiction down long enough to look after me."

Sherlock suddenly rose to his feet, wishing to lessen the tension that gripped his joints. _How had he not deduced it earlier? Was Viola that good at disguising herself?_

"Your mother still struggles with drug use?"

"Not right now," She shrugged, "But on and off, through all my life. As far as parental fixtures go, my set up growing up was the worst. I looked after myself. Well, my _nonna_ raised me- But she's dead now."

A funny sensation dawned on Sherlock's brain. What was it? Guilt? Moreover, he was disturbed not by her story. But by the fact he hadn't noticed. "I didn't realise."

Viola rolled her eyes, "It's your fault, you know."

Sherlock poured over this woman in search of explanation behind the betrayal on her face. In retaliation from his slip up, he deciphered everything. From when they first met, to why she didn't want to contact him. To why she had it in her moral code to _not trust Sherlock Holmes. W_ ords flew off her into the air. Then, it clicked.

And his fists clenched.

"You think _I'm_ the reason your mother got into drug use?"

Viola's jaw dropped in uncontrollable shock that he'd come to the conclusion in a matter of seconds. _Was that the deduction thing?_ "That's what _nonna_ said, and _mamma_."

He could have laughed in derision. Yet he didn't. "It's not true."

"Of course it is," She shook her head, "Or were you so high it's misconstrued your memory? How well _do_ you remember my mother?"

Images of naked bodies, needles, books, and for some reason Queen music spun through his head. He glowered, "Enough. She was already using when we met. It's _how_ we met."

"I don't believe you."

"You do realise, a woman pregnant at eighteen returning to her home country in disgrace is more than likely to lie about the circumstances to defend herself from more scrutiny? To make herself the victim somewhat."

Viola straightened, "You don't have the right to accuse my mother of that."

"You don't even like her."

"That's not the point." Viola's chin jutted up with as much confidence as she could muster. "The point is, you're both as unreliable as each other. And I don't need either of you."

As a man with sociopathic tendencies, Sherlock had always found himself willing to leave situations such as these. If someone didn't require him, he didn't have the emotional measures in himself to stay. Yet, this girl who threw icy comments at him with fiery Italian darting off her tongue was something else. He was angry at Maria for lying to her. Hearing this woman say she didn't need him struck a chord in his synapses that things usually didn't.

"No, of course, you don't," He omitted through gritted teeth, "But I am your biological father-"

"It's just _genes_ -"

"And even if we never communicate again once you leave, I see it in my best interest to make sure we understand one another."

Their eyes met in a heated gaze. For a few moments, neither moved. It was Viola who sighed first, and her posture slacked. A moment later Sherlock followed suit, falling into the same chair from before. Hands placed under his chin. A minute passed. Viola debated leaving the man to sleep, but something stopped her. She couldn't write him off completely, not yet. It wasn't as if Sherlock had purposefully chosen not to be part of her life, after all.

Hesitantly, she decided to change the subject.

"Is Molly your girlfriend?"

Sherlock froze.

 _I don't love you._

An image of Molly's crying form shot into his vision. He ignored it. "No."

Viola had seen him flinch. She matched him with a condescending glare. "Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"I don't believe you." With confidence, the girl bent her arms up, and poised them under her chin in a temple, so they matched each other.

It was like she was asking for war.

Sherlock stared, "Why?"

Viola's gaze didn't falter, she liked her ability to unnerve him. Selfishly, it felt like revenge. One pale hand spun itself through a curl of her hair. "…You look like me when I was trying to cover up the existence of my ex."

Then, she smirked.

A full smirk that reached her blue irises.

Viola had more surprises, so it would seem. She was testing him. She wanted to see how he'd react.

Sherlock's arms removed themselves to rest on the arms of the chair. "I don't have to tell _you_ anything."

Her face was accomplished as she spoke, "It seems we understand one another."

"…It appears so."

With a curt nod, she stood and left. Viola had won that round.

At her absence, the air in the room lightened. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realise he had held. He reflected that his daughter had a lot still to tell him, and that she was smart enough to keep it concealed. He vowed, before she left for Italy, he would make her see that her mother's life choices were not his fault.

His mind swam uncomfortably with new knowledge and foreign emotions. Sherlock considered waking John, but relented. The best person for this- the one person who best understood him- he knew, _was_ Molly.

He reached for his phone, opened her contact, and stopped.

He felt her lips and her tears spinning through his head.

And returned his phone to where it had been.

* * *

The next day brought the return of the clouds over London's skyline.

John had woke in the early hours with an unruly daughter to feed, only to find a note on the fridge.

 _Gone to see the parents.  
Tedious.  
SH_

John let out a small laugh at the blunt tone of the written note, but it faded fast as a sense of foreboding took over.

This was the day when Sherlock's parents would discover Eurus was still alive, and Sherlock would confront them about Viola. His heart sank. It seemed the drama of the week was not planning to relent any time soon.

"Hello."

John turned at the bright Italian accent at the doorway.

Viola offered him a small smile. She leaned against the doorway, using the arm from her good side for support. John couldn't get used to it. This woman in front of him was _Sherlock's daughter._ Same blue eyes, thick black hair in seem messy curls from sleeping that her father's had. Viola stood at a height taller than John's own. She wore one of Mary's blue pyjama tops, that surprisingly he didn't mind lending her. Viola's own clothes didn't sit comfortably over her injury. Mary's fit looser on her frame.

"Er, John? Hello?"

"Sorry" John laughed awkwardly. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 7:22am. "Did Rosie wake you up?"

She took a moment to deconstruct his English, and find her own, "Not used to babies."

He smiled, reached into the fridge and withdrew a bottle, "That girl has the lungs of an elephant." Viola didn't respond, not understanding. John shut the door and tried again, "How was Sherlock last night?"

She thought, "Difficult."

John couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "That's not surprising." He started to go about preparing formula for his daughter, "He is trying, you know. He's in shock. I think he's incredibly overwhelmed."

Viola watched the Doctor idly, and carefully moved herself to sit on a chair of a small dining table, wincing as she did. "I'm also stress."

John stilled momentarily, mentally correcting her tense, and then carried on, "I know. It's an awful situation to be in, for both of you."

They fell into silence.

"How is Molly?"

John flicked his head and saw the concern on the young woman's face. "Molly? Why?"

Viola's brows knitted as she desperately tried to find the words she wanted, she looked at the Doctor openly hoping he'd understand, "Sherlock and Molly stress? Love- er, relationship?"

John was surprised. Had Sherlock told her? Or had she figured it out? He screwed the lid onto Rosie's bottle, and shook it. Sherlock was going to be gone, probably, most of the day. If there was a time for John to find out what had gone on, this was it. "It's complicated. I'll, erm- I'll invite her over. She will probably want to see you too."

Viola hesitated but then nodded, a gentle smile pulling on the corner of her lips. Quickly, she changed the subject, "Can I," Her hands waved a little, "Use your telephone?"

"Don't you have your own?"

"Mycroft stole... England- erm, secure?"

John didn't need to hear more. _Of course_ Mycroft would have taken it for security reasons.

"Want to talk to my friend." Viola explained slowly.

John smiled, reached into his pocket, opened the phone keypad, and passed it over.

"Thank you."

After the few days she had, this was probably the nicest thing he could give her. She was in a foreign land surrounded by strangers, after all.

* * *

"Alive for all these years?" Violet Holmes gasped, "How is it even possible?"

Head practically burying itself in his palm, Mycroft spoke, "What Uncle Rudy had began, I thought it best continue-"

Violet's arms shook, "I'm not asking _how_ you did it, idiot boy, I'm asking how _could_ you?!"

If ever there was a room that personified Mycroft, it was this one. The walls were as steely as his personality.

As Mycroft dealt with telling his parents about Eurus, Sherlock stood back against the wall. His mind was in a blur, fading in and out of their argument. Images of Molly played on his mind. Surprisingly, a welcome distraction from the anger he felt at the other three Holmes' in the room.

It was a strange thing, to realise you needed someone. Several times in his life Sherlock had come to this realisation, and thus had grown a surrogate family. Mrs Hudson, John, Lestrade, Rosamund, and Mary, before she had died. Somewhere in the last decade, Molly had been added to this list. Quietly, but strongly, like she was. When faced with a sister he'd forgotten, and parentage he hadn't known existed, he wanted her support. He _craved_ it.

He pushed it down and tried to settle in the present.

His mother stared down her eldest child, "…Then you should have _done better_ -"

"He did his best." Sherlock cut in suddenly.

Mycroft's eyes grew. After all he had caused, was Sherlock really trying to defend him?

"Then he's very limited." Lamented Mrs Holmes.

 _I don't love you._

Sherlock grimaced inwardly as Molly appeared forcibly in his head once more and muted the noise around him. He wanted her hand in his for reassurance. His stomach turned. Since when did he become so reliant on _physical touch_ for _emotional support_? After last night's discussions with Viola, the feelings had been stronger than ever.

"…There are no words that can reach her now."

Today, with his parents, would have been so much easier with Molly.

"Sherlock," He glanced at his mother who stared at him with an expression with so much emotion it stabbed his exterior, " _Well?_ You were always the grown up... What do we do now?"

The consulting detective's eyes lowered bitterly, "Perhaps we could hold a family reunion."

Mycroft looked away.

"Sherlock, don't mess with your mother's emotions. Not now." Instructed Horace Holmes, staring his son down.

Sherlock's head twitched, and he steeled himself. "It's not just _you_ who has been betrayed."

Through sad eyes, Violet Holmes looked up, "Nothing can be worse than this, Sherlock. How _dare_ you. You brother-"

"-Kept _Viola_ as well as Eurus secret from me. Except it wasn't just Mycroft, was it?"

Silence.

Horace, who had risen from his seat, sank back into it. His aged hands running over his face. Violet Holmes blinked, six times, as the words sank in. Her broken expression became confused, and then pained.

Horace slowly turned his head towards Sherlock, who now held the expectant expression. "Who told you?"

Mycroft sighed, "Context, Sherlock."

"It doesn't matter-"

"Eurus," Mycroft began, "Discovered Viola's existence. Made a ploy to get her into the country. She hired secret agents to kidnap young adults who looked like Sherlock Holmes. They lined them up, broadcasted them to us on live stream, and threatened to kill them all if Sherlock didn't discover which was his."

Violet's face had become horrified, "Is she alright? Did they… Did they hurt her?"

"She's fine." Mycroft replied.

"A fractured rib, concussion, and symptoms of PTSD that she's determined on hiding isn't _fine,_ Mycroft." Bit Sherlock.

All three Holmes' looked shocked at the fire in his tone.

Horace shook his head, "Where is she?"

"With John Watson." Supplied Mycroft.

There was a brief silence, laced with tension.

Violet Holmes felt a tear burn her cheek. "Sherlock-"

"You kept her from me." Sherlock's arms unfolded, "You kept my daughter a secret."

"It was for your own good-"

"No, no it _wasn't._ " His gaze cut into Violet like she was a criminal on the stand, "You kept her from me because of your _fear_. Your fear that I would fail. That I couldn't handle it." He thought for a moment, "Although, I do observe it's _karma_ if such a notion exists. We've both had our respective parentage's returned unexpectedly-"

"Sherlock." Horace stood again, "Don't speak to your mother like that."

"You know something funny? You've never asked me for grandchildren." His eyebrows raised, "Not once. Not over Christmas dinner, in one of your spontaneous visits, never. However, you weren't afraid to pander Mycroft, were you? What was that? A guilty conscience, or merely satisfaction that I had already delivered-"

"Enough, Sherlock." Warned Mycroft.

"Viola is fiercely intelligent, and despite the mess of our generation, she seems to be capable of some human emotion. And she hates me. She doesn't trust me. She's had lies fed down her throat about me." They all watched Sherlock in shock, "If I had known about her, her life would be different, mine would be too. Maybe having a purpose on this rock would have stopped the drug problems and all those things you like to criticise me for."

Violet started to cry, the shock too hard to bear. Quickly, Horace emerged by her side.

"I bet you all laughed when you heard she was named Viola. So similar to mummy. Did you think it was _fate_?"

Mycroft sagged, "Of course not."

"Sherlock," Violet managed sombrely, "Do you want her?"

Sherlock's arms folded, "Even if I did not, I seemed to have acquired her."

"Is that a yes?"

The detective hesitated, and he deduced his parents. Among everything, there was something shocking: Longing. A longing to be part of this girl's life. Guilt, of not having pursued it sooner.

"I'm not going to let Viola continue her existence without my presence. It's come to my attention she hasn't had consistency in her life and I endeavour to amend that."

 _And there it was. He wanted to be a father._

Mycroft folded his arms into a stance that matched his brothers, "And what about the risks, brother mine?"

"For God's sake, Mycroft don't _put him off_." Ground Horace.

Mycroft ignored them, "You deal with terrorists, stalkers, serial killers, arsonists and psychopaths. Yes, Eurus possesses an intellect far beyond the reaches of the rest of the world, and her _finding_ Viola is an exception. But if the world knows who she is, who knows what storm will come raging for her next? Do you want to risk it, risk her, for _sentiment_?"

"I will protect her, Mycroft." Replied Sherlock in a strong voice, "If she has storms coming for her, or the East Wind rises again, then call me Zephyrus."

* * *

"Jaffa cake?"

Molly smiled weakly at John armed with a blue packet of biscuits. Politely, she shook her head no. She had Rosie on her lap, gently holding her in place. The little girl seemed intent on gripping Molly's fingers.

John quickly passed Molly a cup of tea, got his own, and then sat opposite her on the dining table.

"Where's Viola?" Asked Molly, not lifting her gaze from Rosie, "I heard she was staying with you now?"

"She's in the spare room. Sherlock is here too-"

Her eyes widened.

"No- I mean. He's stopping here, because of the explosion. He's out right now, left a note this morning… He and Mycroft have gone to tell their parents that Eurus is alive."

Molly felt relief, but then sadness, her brown eyes lifted up to John's. "They're going to be in a state."

"I doubt not as much as Sherlock was."

"John, they've thought their daughter dead for years. Are you not sympathetic?"

He sighed, "Of course I am. It's just- Sherlock hasn't deserved to be kept from so much, you know? With the right support, I know he could have handled Viola. He could have managed his sister's memory..." He trailed off, and his hands went to wrap around his mug.

Rosie started to play with Molly's jumper.

The pathologist let out a dejected sigh. There was no point pretending to be okay in front of John. Once acquaintances, they had bonded after Sherlock's 'death'. Molly, in guilt for keeping such a huge secret, made it her prerogative to keep John going. She had become a staple of his life. They had seen each other cry. They had confessed their dark thoughts of grief.

John understood her love for Sherlock Holmes, perhaps more than she did herself.

Yet, she still hesitated.

John crossed his legs under the table, "I know what Sherlock did to you."

She blinked, "You do? Who told you?"

"Mycroft confronted Sherlock with it when I was in the room. I think he enjoyed it. Sherlock, however, seemed intent that I remain ignorant on the matter. He didn't elaborate."

Molly anxiously bounced her leg, and Rosie started to giggle, "What did Mycroft say?"

"That Sherlock tried to kiss you," He paused, "And also told you he doesn't love you- I just, I just need to check that you're okay."

Molly felt a familiar wave hitting her. The one that indicated she was going to cry. She closed her eyes, "I'm not okay, but I will be."

"Molly, how many times have I said that to you and you've told me to stop lying?"

She stilled, "A lot."

John watched her carefully, waiting for her to speak.

Molly's voice was scarce, "It felt so… Final. To hear him say he doesn't love me. That he can't. I mean, I've given up so much for him… And… I'm being so selfish because he has much bigger things to think about. He can't have awkward Molly Hooper at his side begging for attention."

John visibly winced at the way she spoke of herself, "Molly, what exactly happened? Talk to me."

Molly steeled herself but found comfort in the eyes of her friend. She told him everything. From the strange comments to the nightmare to the kiss.

After, John looked as if he'd seen a pig fly. It was so odd to hear of Sherlock in his private moments with Molly. It was _different_ with her. Always had been. Sometimes not in the nicest way, but it was fact.

Molly got up and placed Rosie in her high chair as she had begun to fuss. Luckily, her favourite toy, a plush skull Sherlock had brought her, was there to capture her attention.

John felt nervous as he spoke, "I hate to be the bringer of this opinion Molly, but I think you've been mistaken."

"What do you mean?"

He sipped his tea, and then spoke to her cautiously, "Have you considered Sherlock was maybe trying to tell you he wanted more with you?"

Molly stared at John like he was an alien. "No... Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"You said, that he said that he cared for you more than other people. Then, yesterday morning, he told you he needed you."

"Erm, well, yes-"

"Those confessions don't come easily for Sherlock, Molly."

She grimaced, "I _know_ that. But I knew he cared for me. He has trusted me for nearly a whole decade. But that doesn't translate to him wanting- well, I don't even know what he'd want, John."

John leaned his head on his fist and sighed. "Molly, if I tell you something now, it must remain between us. Sherlock would probably skin me alive if he knew."

She frowned uneasily, "Erm, okay, sure."

John steeled himself, "Sherlock told me he wanted a relationship with you, after Sherrinford."

She froze.

"In the car, the first thing he spoke of was you. Not Viola. Not anyone else. Then, when I pushed him, he said it."

Her mouth fumbled to make words that didn't come, her heart was pounding.

"One of the ways I got Sherlock to play Eurus' sick game with Viola was by reminding him that she didn't kill you, because she could see that Sherlock cared for you more than anyone else. And, he _agreed_ with me."

"Then, then why would he-"

"Sherlock gets things wrong when it comes to people." Although this was common knowledge, at that moment it sounded like a revelation, "In that car journey, he also said, categorically, that he doesn't believe in love," Her head lowered, " _No_ \- No, he said doesn't believe in the _concept_ of it. But… When he hugged you, in the hospital. It was as if his silly notions on sentiment being a defect had been shipped off to Mars. I don't think he sees it. But I do."

She wiped back a tear that nearly fell, "John-"

"Molly, listen to me, please. I honestly think… I _think_ that Sherlock is ready to be with you. But I don't think that means he's ready to entertain the possibility of being in love. I mean, I can't speak for him, but I think he could love you with all his heart and yet never find the courage to say it out loud."

"But…" Her face contorted as she battled with the whirlpool of emotion inside her, "Even _if_ your theory is correct, what do you expect me to do? …I don't want to risk being heartbroken anymore."

John reached over and took her hand in his. He offered her a half-hearted smile. "…Mary could see it too, you know. She wanted you two together, desperately. Maybe just don't shut him off. Not yet."

* * *

Viola hummed a small tune as she slowly made her way down John's stairs. Her side ached horrendously; it was time for her pain medication.

She'd spent the morning calling her friends and revising her English by watching television. It didn't work, everyone spoke too fast.

As she reached the bottom step, her eyes caught a letter, wedged halfway through the door. She smiled lightly. She figured helping John out with little things was the least she could do. She reached the letter and pulled it through the door.

And stopped.

 **' _VIOLA'_**

That was all it said, in red ink.

Panic and fear gripped her. Suddenly, she felt dizzy. One hand pressed against the door as she steadied herself.

 _Not here. Not now. Please. Breathe. Viola! Breathe._

Shakily, she let go. And opened the letter.

And it was exactly what she had feared.

' _Ti sono mancata?'_

Nausea gripped her. She fought back tears. The fear felt like acid. What was she to do? Call for John? The _police_? This was bad. _Really bad._

"…How does he know where I am?" She gasped into the empty hallway. Her hand ran through her hair. _Breathe._

Carefully, she turned the letter over. Her eyes widened at the writing on the back. The scribe had written a translation into English.

She felt orbit shift beneath her, and she nearly fell. The floor seemed to turn to water below her feet.

The writing scorched the paper it was written upon.

' _Did you miss me?'_

* * *

 **Oooh dear!**

 **A review box is there with your name on it! Amazing!**

 **AN- Zephyrus, in Greek mythology, is the God of the West wind.  
\- In ACD's original stories, it is mentioned that Sherlock is a descendant of French artist Horace Vernet, this is where Mr Holmes' name comes from.  
**

 **As always, I'm so grateful for your support. Thank you for your follows, favourites and reviews! It means the world.**

 **E**


	7. Colours Dissolving Like Snow

**AN- This chapter picks up as Viola has just found a letter, addressed to her, stating, 'Did You Miss Me?'**

 **See you at the far side!**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

With a less than graceful bounce, the plane made contact with the tarmac.

 _Ciao, vecchio amico._

Back to the grey skies of England.

Maria Esposito grimaced, running a finger between her brows to quell the agitation. Small droplets of rain attached to the window. It did little to pull her out of her inward fervour.

It had been twenty-two years since she last set foot on this ground.

Intaking a slow breath, Maria pulled her long black hair into something akin to a bun. She glanced, green eyes wary, beyond the droplets of rain.

There was a long black car waiting on the runway. A lady stood outside it, texting idly, other hand bearing a long black umbrella open to the skies.

Maria could hear the anchor dropping, securing her to England's soil.

It was time to face Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

" _But…" Molly's face contorted as she battled with the whirlpool of emotion inside her, "Even if your theory is correct, what do you expect me to do? …I don't want to risk being heartbroken anymore."_

 _John reached over, and took her hand in his. He offered her a half-hearted smile. "I'm just the messenger, I guess. But I want you to be happy. …Mary could see it too, you know. She wanted you two together, desperately. Maybe, just don't shut him off. Not yet_."

John was aware of the impact his words had when he felt her grip his hand tightly. Molly blinked back tears that teased on the precipice of falling, and John-

 _Thud._

Instantaneously, both heads flicked towards the door.

John stood with a knitted brow, "Viola?"

Molly raised, quickly wiping her eyes with the base of her palm. The army doctor pressed ahead to the door, opening it with vigour.

Molly saw John's frame lock momentarily, and suddenly he sprang into the hallway.

Viola sat back against the wall. Her palms were locked either side of her. Her head was forced back. Long sodden eyelashes lay as cliffs to dampness on her cheeks, leaving small marks of sadness on the blue fabric she wore. Her chest heaved uncomfortably. Small, but distinctly choked sobs left her.

John knelt quickly, snapping into a Doctor. "Viola? Viola, it's John, can you hear me?" His head swept round to Molly, "She's panicking." And back again, "I'm by your side, Viola. You're not on your own."

As Molly stared wide-eyed, it suddenly clicked. _Viola won't understand him._ She whipped her phone from a pocket and immediately went online.

Molly indicated for John to move, and took his place. "Viola- I need you to try and breathe for me, slowly-" A blearly gaze suddenly fixed on the pathologist, but it seemed to spur on more panic, "No- _Viola, with me-"_ Molly started to take deep breaths, and indicated for the girl to follow.

A slim handed lifted from the ground and grasped onto Molly's. Quickly, Molly fumbled with her other hand to grab the phone. Carefully, she started reciting the screen.

"Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque…"

John's eyes widened, and then he felt pride grasp him. Molly was a _genius._ She read out the numbers in an unsure British twang, but it was enough for Viola to register. She started breathing with the numbers.

A few minutes later, and Viola's breathing had slowed. She sagged limply against the wall. John and Molly shared a look that expressed _what's brought this on-_ but neither had an answer. They were both aware of how much trauma the woman had endured the past couple of days. Had it just started to manifest now?

The door swung open.

Belstaff clad, Sherlock stood on the step. Piercing eyes immediately shifted to the trio on the ground, brain calculating the cause and event on impulse-

Seeing him flicked a switch for Viola. Her persona shifted. Her eyes widened. Far too quickly, she pressed against the wall and hoisted herself to her feet. An audible groan left her throat. She saw stars. Her side viciously protested, pain searing through it like acid.

"Viola-"

She forcefully pushed Sherlock aside and went straight outside. The letter hidden under her top feeling like a gun to the head.

Sherlock blinked, "I'll go and see if she's-"

"No," Molly cut in, getting to her feet, "Let me."

A large hand took hold of her arm.

Molly swore her heart skipped a beat. But not out of affection. _Say it like you mean it – I don't love you – Sherlock told me he wanted a relationship with you._ Brown eyes raised slowly. Her mouth ran dry. Blue irises bore down on hers with unmatched strength. His face was unreadable, yet there were innumerable adjectives to describe it.

Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly as they made a thousand deductions in the space of a moment. In the back of his mind the feeling of her lips, her hands, and the image of her crying face ran rampantly.

Like a surge of electricity hit him, he suddenly let go. Molly held his eyes a moment longer, lost for words, before following Viola outside.

A moment passed before the unruly gaze of the detective fell upon John Watson, who was still crouched on the ground. He suddenly became aware that Rosie had started crying in the kitchen. Sherlock saw _a knowing look_ on John's demeanour. And it wasn't like John to hold this expression often.

He had said something to Molly.

As his mind began to work rapidly, he brought it to a halt. _My daughter is in a state of panic. Make sure she's okay first._ "What's happened to Viola?"

John observed his friend with slight surprise. He had physically seen Sherlock change the subject on his face before he spoke. "Panic attack, a pretty bad one."

"Do you know what triggered it?"

"No," John made his way into the kitchen followed by his tall counterpart, "But she's been through so much, it's probably the stress-"

"Wrong."

Momentarily freezing from lifting his daughter from the clutches of a high chair, John shot his friend a puzzled look, "How am I-"

"John, are your observation skills really that poor?" Sherlock rolled his eyes incredulously, his head tilting slightly, "That wasn't a delayed reaction to trauma. That was trauma being _re-enacted_."

"Sherlock, you weren't even-"

"She left with confidence, despite her pain. The control that she exhibited was rehearsed: Repeat trauma." His face turned into an inquisitive one, "Something scared her, and she doesn't want us to know."

John bounced Rosie in his arms. "But what could have scared her like that? …In my hallway?"

Sherlock frowned, "I require further evidence to hypothesise."

Rosie started reaching out, "'Lock!". John quickly passed her over. For the man who hated physical contact, and most of the population, he didn't mind his goddaughter. She'd drool, squeal, and pull his hair into next Sunday but he didn't complain.

John changed the subject, "How did it go with your parents?"

"Oh," He blinked as if he'd forgotten the whole incident, "Dull."

"Just dull?"

"They were angry, as to be expected. Margaret Violet Holmes was extremely disgusted at Mycroft. He looked like a fish out of water. Or perhaps a whale." Then, he smirked.

John pursed his lips at the sound of Sherlock's mum's full name. He decided it was another way Sherlock wanted to disassociate from the situation. "Did you tell them about Viola then?"

"Of course."

"And?"

"…I said what I needed to." Rosie pressed a small hand on his cheek, "They didn't apologise. It's a motion they're incapable of."

John ran a hand through his hair, "Did they seem sorry though? For lying?"

"They were more concerned about her wellbeing than mine. I told them I want to be a father to the Viola, yet they definitely think I'm going to go back on it."

Pursing his lips, John considered his friend's words. John admitted he too had part of his mind that doubted his friend's ability to cope. Sherlock never let people near his heart. All of his family ties were fraught with tension. He wished he could understand the kaleidoscope of colours behind Sherlock's skull. He knew Molly was different, but that was a culmination of a decade long friendship. Viola, however, was horrifyingly new.

"John? Sherlock?"

Both men turned to Molly standing nervously in the doorway.

Sherlock felt heat rise on his face.

"Is everything okay?" Asked John.

"…Viola's mother is here."

The detective and doctor shared a look of shock. A moment later, Sherlock dashed passed Molly and outside, Rosie still in his arms.

Trepidation billowing in Molly's stomach, she followed with John by her side. For some reason, the thought of meeting the mother of Sherlock Holmes' child _terrified_ her.

 _I love you._

* * *

Emerging into the cool air, the first thing Sherlock observed was the moderately sized limo with darkened windows waiting on the road. _Mycroft never skips the theatrics._

A few metres away, stood Viola and her mother.

Maria Esposito.

Colours swept inside his head suddenly, and he felt the vibrations of bass tickling his ears.

 _1996\. Fluorescent colours spun against the darkness, lighting like fireworks in the dark. Bass pounded against Sherlock's ears from some Indie band he didn't recognise. Heat swelled with humid intensity mixing with the looming presence of cigarette smoke. Bodies moved against the music. One huge clump of human activity. Screams, chants, laughter, and singing penetrated through the strums of guitars._

 _Sherlock Holmes glided through it all with an omnipresent demeanour, mind in a haze. He weaved through the frivolity curiously-_

 _A force grabbed him and suddenly his back met a wall. The fog in his brain took a moment too long to register. His sensory neurones suddenly kicked in. His neck was suffering an ambush. Of what?_

 _Kissing. Definitely kissing._

 _His hands shot out onto a person's shoulders, pushing them away._

 _An ebony haired girl stood in front of him, pouting, yet amused. Her pupils were blown wide. Through the multicoloured lights, he caught the shades of green irises. She was tall, but her heels brought him to his height. Italian. Intelligent. Immature. Soft features. Aroused. Biology student._

 _He deadpanned her, "Buonasera."_

 _Her jaw dropped, "…Woah. Who are you and how the hell did you work that out by just looking at me?"_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Would you mind relieving the onslaught on my neck?"_

" _No!" She drawled, accent pinging lyrically, "I mean- Have you seen it? It's… Beautiful."_

" _Beautiful?"_

" _Molto bella e sensuale." Just like that, the onslaught resumed._

Sherlock chastised himself, forcing himself back into the present. The music faded. The colours dissolved into the air like snow.

It was strange, how Sherlock Holmes could delete information, yet he held a plethora of information about Maria Esposito. His memories swept in and out of drug-induced hazes, but they were there.

 _Maria's black tresses are in a bun_. _Messy. Done after the plane landed. No mirror. Doesn't worry over her appearance. Not slept in 27 hours. Nervous. Loose shirt to distract from track marks underneath it. Clean for 82 days. Underweight. Minor premature ageing. Divorcee. Worked at a pharmacy. Now, something menial. Office work._

A cough left Sherlock's throat, to indicate his presence.

Green irises met blue, for the first time in two decades.

They stood solidly, for a moment, pouring over each other's every detail. Sherlock didn't hear Molly and John emerge outside.

It was awkward. No one moved.

John observed that Sherlock's gaze was so intense he could have easily been mistaken for wanting to kiss the woman. But that was ridiculous. But it was also _so interesting_. This is the woman who had _undone_ Sherlock Holmes. And that was their child. He'd seen Sherlock in many disguises, covered in blood, and even dressed in drag once. But _this_ was the strangest thing he'd ever seen.

The perpetual silence was broken as Rosie pulled on a black curl, and Sherlock winced.

Maria watched him intensely, "Your brother didn't tell me you had another child?"

Her English was even. Accent dominated, but articulate. She was clearly a lot more fluent than her daughter.

"She isn't mine."

"Ah," Maria bit her lip, "Mycroft has sent a car to take us all to his workplace." She seemed unsure of the term _workplace_ in relation to Sherlock' brother.

"All of us?"

"Apparently."

"Why isn't he here?" Sherlock questioned.

"The lady with the mobile said something came up."

 _Something came up,_ Sherlock groaned inwardly, _of course._

Sherlock instructed everyone to get in the oversized car. As he did, he met eyes briefly with Molly, who looked terrified. Why should she be so intimidated? The answer was obvious. To her, this was the only woman who could have potentially won his heart. Everything she wasn't. It was that, and the tension from their kiss still bleeding into the space between them.

Yet, Sherlock didn't find it uncomfortable. Because as he looked at Maria, and then across to Molly, the strangest thought travelled through his head.

 _Look how far I've come._

* * *

The trouble with limos was that everyone had to face each other.

In a 'C' formation, sat John, Viola- whom John brought pillows to support her back and side-, Molly, Rosie in a car seat, Sherlock, and Maria.

In silence.

"So, Maria," Sherlock began, rolling the 'r' on his tongue, "It appears we have procreated."

A nervous laugh exploded from John. Molly glared.

Maria hissed, "You really want to do this here?"

"Unless you have any objections?"

Maria tightened in her seat, whispering- although everyone could hear- "Your brother got _my daughter_ kidnapped and put into _hospital._ "

"Yet it took you _two days_ before you boarded a plane to see her." Sherlock's hands clasped together, "A bit of a _leisurely_ travel time to see _our daughter's safety_."

 _Holy shit,_ John thought, eyes going wide.

The heat of the insult spread across their small airspace like a bomb had been detonated.

The parents stared each other down for a moment, one affronted, the other condescending.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was a curious man, who always provided flair when solving his problems.

Allocating his families' domestic dispute to the SIS Building, headquarters of MI6, was certainly one of them.

A Pathologist, Doctor, Detective, two Italian ladies and the baby, in what could be argued as the most elusive building in the United Kingdom. The group had been escorted from the limo by eight security personnel. They had each been searched, even Rosie. Sherlock had protested every single measure but to no avail. Several long corridors and strange looks from Secret Service Agents later, they reached their destination.

One room was adorned with dark carpet, oppressive black walls, with a mahogany table in the middle. Three chairs were placed either side. Attached was another smaller room, with small television monitors set up at the walls. Beside it, a wide blacked out window, looking onto the Thames.

Molly shuffled awkwardly, "Well, at least it's warmer than the morgue."

Among the cold looks she received, she noticed Sherlock smirk.

"Viola, Maria, if you would please come with me." He gestured to the other room smoothly. Both women shared a nervous glance, and followed, Sherlock closed the door behind them.

John shook his head, "Well, this is _unexpected._ "

Molly giggled, "I didn't expect to end up here again."

John's eyes flicked sideways, _"Again?"_

She stilled, "Ah, erm- The fall."

That was all John decided he needed to know.

As if on cue, another door opened. Mycroft stood, arms behind his back, observing them coolly. "Molly, I do hope you're not divulging matters of national security."

She flushed, but to John's surprise he saw the faintest of smile's on Mycroft's face. For the latter, that may as well have been a Cheshire Cat-sized grin.

Like the said cat, Mycroft moved into the room. A tall security guard took place in the doorway. Mycroft neatly pulled a chair and sat himself down. "I need to speak to you both regarding criminal activity in central London."

Confused, Molly took the chair opposite him, "Erm, why?"

"It's in your best interest."

John patted a yawning Rosie against his chest, "What's this about, Mycroft? I've had enough of your meddling this week to last a lifetime."

"Jamal, please remove the child-"

"No," John scowled at the security agent who'd moved two steps towards him, "Rosie stays with me."

"John, this isn't the-"

" _No_." There was deep anger in his tone.

Mycroft gave a wave of his hand, and the agent retreated to the doorway.

"Surely Sherlock should be listening to this?"

"Miss Hooper, Sherlock's absence is precisely _why_ I'm talking to you now."

John sat down beside Molly, staring incredulously.

"I've been alerted, an hour ago, to an incident at a Santander bank branch at Bishopsgate. It's the third incident which has happened in the city within the past thirty-six hours."

"What incident?"

"Theft. Hackers assumed control of the system. Two people arrived, decorated as tourists. They claimed an international transaction wasn't working. Then they threatened the staff with small firearms, and drained every single person's personal data located at the branch with a singular memory stick." Mycroft appeared unreadable, "It is being kept out of the news, of course, a security breach of this scale."

John scrunched his face a little, "Why are you telling us this?"

"There was a message left behind. It's untraceable. But they want to leave clues." A fire simmered, "They're trying to antagonise us."

"Who's they?" Molly asked, out of her comfort zone.

Mycroft Holmes looked between the Pathologist, Doctor, and baby. An ice wall surrounded him. "The message attached was simply three nonsensical phrases: Burn the heart, I.O.U… And Did you miss me?"

* * *

Before commencing discussion with Viola's mother, Sherlock could predict thirteen ways about how it would play out. It had inevitably taken the ninth route. Maria Esposito had gotten straight to the point, asking when she could return to Italy with her daughter. Sherlock had diverted the subject to the events of 1996, and criticised her. He hadn't remembered her being so volatile. Time hadn't changed her for the better. Like her daughter, she disliked him.

Then, for the first time in almost ten minutes, Viola spoke up. Luckily for her, they'd spoken in Italian the entire time.

She glanced nervously through her black curls, "I don't want to go home with you, mamma. I want to stay here… With Sherlock."

None of his deductions had suggested _this._ His stomach flipped in shock.

Maria straightened. She folded her arms, and glared at the father angrily, "You've _already_ turned her against me!" Her head swept to her daughter, "Viola, for God's sake, you can't be ridiculous. Italy is your home."

"Yes… But I want to stay here, for a bit."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, looking at his daughter trying to pry off as much information as possible. There was nothing that could explain it.

"I was thinking, maybe I can still look at attending the Royal College of Pathology-"

 _She was lying._

"Viola Seraphina, I can't leave you here with _this man_."

"Excuse me, Maria, but as much as I think our daughter's ideas _are_ misguided, I won't let you speak to me like that."

She bristled, "Why not?"

"You've lied to Viola about me. I'm more than capable of looking after her." His eyes wandered up and down the woman in front of him, "Realistically, _better_ than you."

Viola gasped. Tension gripped her.

Maria's laughed, "Wasn't your flat exploded three days ago?"

"Yes. I don't see why that incurs anything on this situation. You have led Viola on a dark path away from _anything_ that put me in decent light."

"You were a hopeless junkie with sociopathic tendencies, Sherlock! You _hurt_ me. You _took away_ my chances of a career by getting me pregnant-"

"If I had been aware I would have suggested you terminate it immediately."

"You _bastard,"_ Maria breathed, her arm's lifted outwards, "Viola, don't you see what this man is?"

"Why did you lie to her, Maria?" Sherlock cut in, "Why did you tell her that I got you into drug use?"

"…Because it's the truth!"

"No." He laughed sardonically, "Exact opposite. When we met, I took cocaine orally. You _showed_ me how to inject it. Yet, I would _never_ blame you for my addiction. I allowed you to do that. But I will not let you refuse to take responsibility for your part in this." Anger raised in his chest with such a fury he hadn't expected, " _Tell her you lied_."

"No."

"Maria-"

Her lip wobbled, "No- No I won't."

Viola, observant as she was, finally felt it crashing around her. The truth lit up across London's skyline. _She could see Sherlock cared._ A tear fell, "Oh my God… It's true, isn't it? Mamma?"

Maria's green eyes weakly met her daughters, "I'm sorry, _topolino."_

Viola braced herself against the glass and suddenly found herself crying.

Sherlock didn't react, "She deserved to know."

* * *

John and Molly took a few moments to digest Mycroft's words. They hung in the air like dense fog.

Swallowing, John was the first to speak, "...But Moriarty's dead."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised, "Indeed. I saw the corpse myself."

"But-"

"All intelligence is pointing to a splinter group being set up to reorganise the empire of the consulting criminal. Now," His hands laced together, "My hope is that this is a small faction that can be dealt with within a week. However, they are proving themselves to be an intelligent enemy. And in light of recent events, we have to take the threat more seriously."

Molly's eyes remained fixed, "What do you mean?"

Mycroft steeled himself, "Those phrases are all directly associated with my brother. Although the crimes are unrelated, I believe the goal is to win his attention. Then of course, there is the added factor that this started on the day Eurus took us captive."

John's eyes flicked up immediately, "You're suggesting they know about Eurus? …And Viola?"

"One can only pertain that this is personal. My family could well be under a threat that we don't understand."

"What do you suggest we do, Mycroft?"

"Nothing."

Molly looked appalled, "Nothing?"

"Exactly. Your task is to keep Sherlock ignorant. I will up your security, and Scotland Yard have been informed not to let on. I fear if he takes this case then he will put everyone in an intense line of danger." He paused, considering his next words, "Moriarty has destroyed my brother once. Now, with a family and-" His eyes flicked to Molly, "New _potential_ in his life, I fear he may jeopardise everything. We need to neutralise the threat quietly."

John felt himself tremble. _More secrets,_ he grimaced, _never-ending lies and secrets-_

"Of course, Mycroft" John looked up in shock at Molly, who held steadfast determination on her face, "We'll do whatever you need us to."

* * *

Later, Sherlock and his surrogate- and biological- family, stood outside, waiting for the car to collect them all. Maria stared at him stoically and gestured him to join his side, away from their earshot.

Hands behind his back, he joined her.

"I don't know why she wants to stay with you, Sherlock." She started heavily in English.

He paused, "Neither do I."

"Viola is more complicated then you realise. More than I realise. She'll have her reasons. But… I'm worried about her."

Sherlock frowned, "Why?"

"She was scared today when I pulled up outside. It was like I'd walked into her three years ago."

Sherlock observed that maybe she was more intelligent than he gave her credit for.

Maria sighed, "I'm only telling you because it's _important."_ He nodded, "Three years ago she had a stalker. An ex-boyfriend- But, he terrorised her. Left her notes. Photos of her, and the like. In the end, he was arrested. My ex-husband caught the boy before he hurt her," Regret swam in her eyes, "Viola was traumatised, for a while. But she's got better. I panicked… Because today she looks like she's been set back years."

Sherlock found himself replaying Viola's moment's post-panic attack in his head. She had been _deathly afraid_. The words he found were more unsure then he wanted them to be, "…She's been through a lot this week."

"Yes, well, exactly. I don't trust her judgement in wanting to stay, even if it is temporary." Maria wrapped her arms around herself, "But if she is insistent then you need to understand. She's so clever, she feels the world so vividly. But she's emotional and she's been hurt. She will boast independence, but she isn't ready for it."

Sherlock saw her tracing the inside of her elbow. There was a brief quietness before he spoke, "Well done."

Maria head lifted to look at him, "Sorry?"

"Eighty days clean, with no rehab… It's quite the feat."

Maria bore into him in shock. _Was he complimenting her?_ Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Then a slight youthful confidence that he recognised took over, "Eighty-two, actually."

He managed a small smile, "Even better."

She found herself matching his expression, "And yourself?"

"One hundred and twenty-three. But I was clean for eight years before that."

Suddenly, Maria saw this man she had grown to hate, back in his younger body. "What made you relapse after so long?"

Sherlock looked ahead of her, "Initially, a case… But then, one of my best friends died." He admitted, although he didn't know why.

"…I'm sorry."

He nodded numbly, "Thank you."

After an understanding moment passed between them, he was distracted by Molly trotting over. It had been such a weighted afternoon, he had managed to be momentarily distracted from the tsunami of emotions playing in his brain over her. She looked so anxious. He hated that he had made her cry. He hated that she didn't understand.

Sherlock suddenly found himself compelled to talk to her. It blossomed like the dawn of spring.

"The car's here." She told the pair, stammering slightly.

Quickly, she turned, but Sherlock grasped onto her hand quickly. Molly gasped, and pivoted to look at him. He lingered close to her.

"Molly, can I stop at yours tonight?"

* * *

 **Oooo... What do we think will happen next?**

 **Thank you everyone for the continued love and support! Can't believe how much the readership is growing. :-)**

 **See you at the next update!**

 **E**


	8. Orchestra of Maddening Thoughts

**AN - Thank you all for your follows, favourites, and reviews. Your support means the world!**

 **A reminder: Mycroft has told John and Molly that there is a potential splinter group from Moriarty's network setting up in London. Under no condition does he want Sherlock to know. Sherlock, nonthewiser, has just asked Molly to spend the night!**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

An obstinate silence hung over Sherlock and Molly as they made the journey to the nearest underground station.

The moment after he had asked to stop at Molly's for the night, he had regretted it. Since when did he act on a whim like that? Sentiment was a chemical defect. The effect Molly Hooper was having was _not good._

Eurus had been right about one thing, Sherlock thought, emotional context had devastating implications. He'd kissed Molly, and she had cried. Surely that meant they were doomed from the off? Sherlock, for the seventh time in nine minutes, considered walking away.

Molly wasn't an experiment, she was his friend. Their relationship was turning into something far more intense than he had ever intended, he could deduce that-

"I can hear you thinking."

A soft voice drew him from his stupor. Molly cocked an eyebrow at him, brown eyes dancing with curiosity.

He remained indifferent, focusing on the colourless pavement beneath them. "Thinking doesn't produce sound waves."

"Stop being priggish Sherlock, that's your line and you know it." She giggled.

Sherlock was surprised she was trying to lessen the tension between them. He had kissed her, and she had kicked him out of her flat. Yet she was making jokes? His lips drew into a line.

"It's Viola, isn't it?" Molly said after a beat.

They rounded a corner as the streetlights flicked to life. Rush hour traffic blared through their ears.

Sherlock hummed in confirmation. Lying, but he didn't care.

Molly continued, "Her mother isn't terrible, is she? I mean, after what you'd said about her, I didn't know what to expect-"

"Viola wishes to stay with me in London." Sherlock cut in.

Briefly, Molly stopped walking, and then scrambled after him, "She what?"

"Molly, keep up. I won't repeat myse-"

"She wants to stay with you?"

"For once, I may be as shocked as you are." He muttered arrogantly, but Molly saw the weight in his words, the ocean changing tides in his blue irises, "She doesn't like me. Viola is clever and for some reason _likes_ human interaction, it makes no sense why she wants to keep my company over that in her own country."

"…Maybe she wants to get to know her dad?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock rebuked smoothly, "It's more complicated than that, Molly. I pertain that this is a result of whatever scared her this afternoon."

"Sherlock, what could have scared her so much to force a decision like that?"

"I'm working on that deduction, Molly."

She blew hot air into her cupped hands, he led them around another corner.

Nothing was said for the next few minutes. Images of Viola as a teenager with a stalker played on Sherlock's mind, but he couldn't make a singular connection to that past incident and her panic attack earlier and categorised it as irrelevant. In his peripheral, he saw Molly thinking. Her expression focused and resolute-

 _Wait._

Blue eyes narrowed ahead on two men across the road.

Molly was oblivious to the thunder that started to swell upon the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

 _Keep it together, Molly!_ Molly breathed, trying her absolute best to keep her face neutral. Mycroft was relying on _her_ deception skills. Hers! She was not immune _at all_ to his deductions. This was the man who could tell what music she was listening to by the way she held her scalpel.

John's words swam around in her head. Sherlock had said he wanted to be with her. And it had felt too good to be true.

Turns out, it was.

If she was too emotional, if she let her guard down, then Sherlock would know. She couldn't let him risk his new family like that-

Sherlock grabbed her.

She went to scream.

His hand fixed on her mouth.

Sherlock pulled her sideways into a small alleyway, and down three meters into it. Two black bins lay pressed against one side.

"Quiet, Molly." Sherlock hissed against her ear.

The shock was so profound she stumbled ungainly. Blue eyes met brown in a heated stare, Molly suddenly violently aware that her body was squarely held against his. "If I let you go, don't move."

She managed a shaky nod.

Sherlock's large hands relinquished hold of her, and she stumbled as the cold air hit her.

Sherlock pressed his body flat against a wall and peered around.

 _What is he doing?!_

As if on cue, Sherlock Holmes strode towards her, explaining quietly, "Molly, there's two men around the corner, heroin users. They're planning to assault a girl who's inside the pub at the opposite side of the road. They're waiting for her to leave."

If she was afraid before, she was terrified now.

Sherlock fixed her with a stern look, "Stay here."

He made a move to leave. Suddenly, Molly's cold hand gripped his tightly. Sherlock physically had to stop himself being drawn to it. _Timing, Sherlock! Focus!_

"Sherlock, please-"

"Molly, let me sort it! For God's sake, you're worse than John." His cheek twitched with anger, " _Stay here"._

Offence gripped her chest like acid being poured on it. She let go.

The detective took a step away, messed his hair with his hands, unpulled his shirt from his trousers, and stepped around the corner.

Just as Molly was about to protest, her phone vibrated.

' _Unrelated to our investigation. Let him sort it._

 _MH'_

Molly felt a brief sway of relief knowing Mycroft was watching. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had spotted crime when they were out. It was a purely maddening and beautiful skill. But seeing him walk headfirst into danger's path never got easier. She didn't know if it would.

Forcing a barrage of complicated thoughts away, she carried herself over to the edge of the alley, finding the most discrete angle in which she could watch from afar.

* * *

Head dipped below orange streetlamps, Sherlock made his way towards the two men skulking outside a pub.

 _Suspect One: 5"7. Fourteen months using. Unemployed. Not academic. Ruffles on the collar: string of partners. Heightened anxiety. Length of jeans: Predator. Indentation on thumbs: Gamer. Homeless, but cohabitating with suspect two._

 _Suspect Two:_ _Military- no, ex-Royal Fleet Axillary. Naval Engineer. Clothes creased: forced discharge. Overweight. Hair dyed but not refreshed, colour still visible at the ends: Terminated relationship, not over it._

Sherlock stalked up to them, purposefully altering the rhythm of his pace, "Hey mate."

Naval Engineer wrinkled his nose, "You talking to us?"

"Yeah", Sherlock shuffled, "You guys got anywhere we can go? I need a hit."

"Woah pal, not so loud!" Unemployed hissed, stuffing his hands into an army coloured bomber jacket, "Ahmed, you know him?"

 _Naval Engineer Ahmed, S_ herlock attached a name to face. "Er, no. Who are you?"

"Ben." Sherlock muttered, "I know your guy. Please," he offered them a desperate glance, "I need a hit."

Unemployed shrugged, stepping closer, "You don't look like no druggie?"

Sherlock niftly lifted his sleeves displaying fading track marks- An image of Maria at eighteen flashed through his mind suddenly- "Been off a while, but Christ, I need a hit. Please I know your guy, he said-"

"Ritchie, you hear this bullshit?"

 _Unemployed Ritchie_ met Ahmed in squaring up to Sherlock, " _Ben here,_ says _our guy_ gave him permission to share!"

A shadow of the detective broke though the ruse, "Alright, fine," He falsified a sigh, "I'm here for the girl."

Ritchie's gawped ignorantly, "Yer what?"

"The girl you're grooming? For her."

Ahmed narrowed to him in an instant, " _Fuck_ he is a copper!"

It happened in a flash.

Molly saw hands grab Sherlock and push him back against a copper brick wall, followed by knees to the abdomen. Sherlock quickly freed himself and managed to force one of the men to the ground pulling an arm behind their back. She saw the other man go in.

And a flash of silver danced against the streetlights above.

And Molly didn't think.

All she saw was pointed silver heading towards the man she loved, the man with a family, a daughter.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's head flipped like a rabbit and fury filled his features. Molly ran towards him. _What is she doing?!_

"Sherlock?! Oh my bloody hell it's that detective bloke!"

"Who are you?" Ahmed's face turned into a grin, he eyed Molly up and down, "You this prick's girlfriend?"

Her heart rattled, "L-Let him go, and we won't call the police."

 _Stupid!_

Sherlock was paralysed. _Focus. Danger! Protect Molly Hooper._

Ritchie twisted under Holmes' unrelenting grip, but managed to thrust his head up near his ear, "Mate, she's punching well above her weight, not exactly peng-"

Sherlock's twisted Ritchie's arm. Ahmed took the distraction to sweep towards Molly.

Sherlock was faced with a sight nothing prepared him for.

Molly Hooper, held in the grip of a stranger holding a blade against her throat.

His mind palace erupted with alarm. He heard Eurus' laughs melded with Moriarty's screaming. He saw Viola under hostage. Mary dying in the aquarium. John with bombs to his chest. Amongst the sweeping memories, a rationalisation hit the detective that was more profound and more _real_ than anything he'd ever understand.

 _This was worse._

"Let her go!" Everything had gone to hell. Logical thoughts abandoned.

Ahmed pressed Molly closer to him, "Why?"

"She's an _unarmed_ woman. You're a military man, you know-"

"I'm a bloody engineer, pal." He braced the blade on her throat, meeting contact with a few brunette locks that rested there.

"Please."

Ahmed froze, chuckling. "Am I really being begged by the _famous Sherlock Holmes_?!"

Sherlock's face simmered with a million thoughts, and suddenly clarity hit them.

 _What's worse, Sherlock? Falling or drowning?_

The dead end.

 _Say it like you mean it._

He seemed void of emotion.

 _I love you._

"Yes. Let her go... Please."

He couldn't be clever anymore. He couldn't fight. _Save Molly, save Molly, save her-_

The criminal waved away the blade from Molly and thrust it towards Sherlock, "No coppers if I do, you hear?"

Anger burnt his throat. "…Yes, of course. Just give me Molly."

Ahmed considered the detective with scepticism. After a beat, he forcefully pushed Molly into him. Ahmed took off, Ritchie scrambling after him.

Molly's knees buckled. Sherlock didn't see himself wrapping her up ferociously. He didn't hear himself telling her everything was okay. He didn't hear her apologising. He didn't notice the onlookers descent as they called the police. He didn't see the flash of phone cameras. Sherlock's mind only echoed one thought.

 _Molly's safe._

* * *

Sherlock wished he had his violin. Or cigarettes. Or cocaine. Anything to quell the manic cacophony in his mind. But his flat laid in ashes, he was clean, and now had a daughter to stay clean for. He also had Molly, but she was the most prominent instrumentalist in this orchestra of maddening thoughts.

London passed through the windows of the taxi drearily.

196 minutes ago, Molly Hooper's life had been threatened, because she had tried to protect him.

They hadn't communicated since they'd been taken to Scotland Yard to give statements.

Sherlock wanted to walk away. To leave Molly, her love for him, and Eurus' taunts to the dogs. Yet there they were, travelling back to her flat together because the thought of her being alone after such an incident made him feel physically sick.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly."

"Erm… Your phone, it's ringing."

Suddenly, his ears decided to acknowledge the chimes coming from his pocket. The detective made a swift motion putting it to his ear. "John."

Molly sat like a scorned child. She heard the odd muffled word from John coming from the speaker.

" _Sherlock you… in danger… Viola's mum… You cock… Is Molly safe?'_

"Yes, John, she's safe. I'm accompanying her back to her flat now. Now, if you could avoid the delinquent language I'd rather be admonished by a man than a-"

' _Your daughter… Be responsible… Bloody hell, mate… Molly doesn't…'_

"Doctor Hooper threw herself in the line of danger _for me._ The situation was _fine_ until she got involved." Molly winced. "Viola knows exactly what sort of person I am, despite your limited cognitive functions you should understand that- No- John, I don't _care._ Everyone is fine so stop blithering on! Mycroft's not…"

The words faded out for Molly. Sherlock was angry. _So angry_. But, that wasn't why she was upset. She was overwhelmed.

For the first time in over nine years of friendship, she realised she finally _saw_ Sherlock Holmes. She saw the fear in his eyes. Molly had never known him to beg like that. Not ever. Everything John had said about Sherlock wanting a relationship with her shifted into focus. Molly _saw_ it. She saw the love on his face.

He didn't believe in love, but he _loved_ her.

Molly found herself unsure whether she should start dancing in celebration or run for the hills.

As the taxi rolled to a stop, she resigned that neither option was palpable.

* * *

For the third time in a week, Sherlock Holmes stood inside Molly Hooper's flat. It was small, meticulously organised, and horrendously boring. The only solace was the academic books on corpses and crime that rested upon a charity shop bookshelf. Sherlock found himself going over the titles and authors, the only respite he could find against the woman who had become more bright than magnesium under a flame.

Molly had busied herself in the kitchen. He heard the whirring of the kettle, the movement of mugs, the drawing of water. And finally, small footsteps.

"Hope you don't mind it's peppermint, didn't think you'd want the caffeine."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"The tea?"

"No, _of course_ not the tea." He bit, and suddenly turned to look at her, "You could have got yourself killed, Molly."

Mugs in both of her small hands, she didn't return eye contact.

"…I had to protect you."

"The situation was _fine_ before you walked in-"

"I saw a _blade_ -"

"I knew he had one!" He spat, with more vehemence then he had expected, she took a small step back, "I'm Sherlock Holmes, Molly! I s _ee_ these things- It was under control!"

"One man started attacking you-"

"And I let him! I knew what I was doing! You were the one who made it dangerous! You're the reason we're all over the news!"

"….I know."

"Viola's mum is still in the country. How is she going to trust me now? Soon as she turns on the news she'll see this. Throwing myself in harm's way with a traumatised daughter at home!"

" _That's_ why I stepped in! I couldn't let you endanger yourself when you're daughter needs you!"

Sherlock saw a flash of knowing cross over her features. He stilled.

"What is it?"

She matched his automatic stillness, "What do you mean?"

"What is it that you know, Molly? You're hiding something from me."

 _How on earth did he figure out her secrets from Mycroft just like that?! We're not even talking about it._ Her eyes flicked up and saw his staring at her intently, his mind starting to work. _He's going to figure it out and everyone could be in danger- I have to stop him- I have to distract him!_ "Er…" _Think, Molly!_ "I don't know what you mean?"

She quickly placed the mugs down on her coffee table. They landed harshly and small splats fell from the edge.

 _Think, Molly! Think!_

"You do realise if you don't divulge whatever it is you're not saying then I'll figure it out?" He cocked an eyebrow at her plainly, "It's what I do."

Air felt short. He needed a distraction. Something big enough to shut the thoughts away. To save him.

Sherlock watched the pathologist raise her head, brown eyebrows caught in thought. She took a moment, and he could see a decision made. For in the next moment, she caught his gaze with a steadfast determination- _Please let this work_ \- She took four steps, each of them quicker than the other, looped an arm around the back of his neck…

And pulled him down to kiss her.

And for a moment, all was still.

The world stopped turning on its axis.

It felt like an eternity. Logic faded into the abyss. Pathologist and detective, who had faced a fake death, the loss of Mary, relapses into drug use, the tyranny of Eurus Holmes, and the shock of Viola, became two simple people. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

She didn't know how long it was before she detached her lips from his. Sherlock's stillness frightened her, but it didn't stop her resolve. Stillness meant shock. And shock meant distraction. Distraction meant _safety_.

But Molly was the woman who had kissed the man she loved after he had denied her. Insecurity gripped her harder than she'd ever imagined. Inches apart, she managed to breathe out a small phrase.

"I know you want me. That is what I know."

* * *

Ahmed had got away. Couldn't say the same for Ritchie. He slumped behind the fence of a residential estate and took a deep drag of a cigarette, the smoke breathed sweet success. Vibration from the inside of his jacket caught his attention, and he dragged the phone to his face. Idly, he removed the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his index and third finger. "Boss, yeah," He chuckled, "You saw the news? No, Mycroft Holmes hasn't figured it out, I wouldn't have outrun MI5 would I?".

Ahmed threw the cigarette to the ground, squashing it with the sole of his trainer. "No, no- It worked better then we wanted. He loves her. The detective's way softer than we thought, dunno what Moriarty saw in him. But- No it's peak that- Listen, we just need to get to Viola. Molly is too easy. We'll get the wolf onto her… Sherlock will realise soon."

* * *

Viola couldn't sleep.

How was it possible that her world could be completely reinterpreted within the space of a week? From Tuscan hills to MI6, from one parent to two, from recovery to threatening messages. Her _mamma_ had lied all her life... Sherlock Holmes really cared for her, but had never had the chance.

With a small groan, the young woman hoisted herself to her feet. Viola caught her reflection in the mirror.

Her dark locks stuck in all sorts of directions. Her eyes carried purple bags under them. The bruise she had acquired when she'd been held captive now had a green hue. She saw her _mamma_ after a relapse in herself. The likeness made her uneasy. She decided not to consult what metaphor this could allude to.

Grabbing a mug from her bedside table, she made her way into John's living room. The said man was sat back on the settee. _Why is he always awake when I am?_

He offered her a small smile, "You okay?"

"Mmm."

John spoke cautiously, "Viola, if you want to talk, then I will listen to you. I want to be a friend."

Viola was relieved his word choice was simple. "I would, erm, work- But, my English isn't good. I'd… stress you."

John seemed shocked, "It's up to you, but I don't mind. I worked as a Doctor in Afghanistan, half my patients didn't speak English. But they felt better after talking to me. Or trying to."

Blue eyes considered the doctor's words, although she'd completely lost the middle part. But she saw he was trying to be kind to her. She was grateful. But she couldn't tell him about the letter. There was so much she couldn't say. Viola's hands drew up to her cheek and wiped away a tear.

John found himself standing quickly, as the young woman started to cry. It was so strange to see someone so like Sherlock Holmes crying. Before he had time to process it, the tall girl had leaned into his arms.

John held her comfortingly and wished Mary was there. She always knew what to do.

 _Knock knock knock-_

Viola let go of the doctor surprisingly quickly and looked startled. John ignored it, stepping into the hallway.

Sherlock Holmes stood, looking remarkably awake. John had to do a double take, but didn't get chance as the detective slipped past him easily, "Viola!"

"Sherlock, it's 5am! Where's Molly?" Pestered John, jogging after him.

"Irrelevant," He waved a palm to issue his point, "Viola, we're going out."

Viola took a step back as Sherlock burst in. He did a quick once over, saw she had been crying, and seemed momentarily distracted. A second later, a smile appeared on his face. He spoke in Italian "Don't just stand there go and get ready!"

Viola cocked an eyebrow, "You seem a bit… Wired?"

"Ah, well of course! I have a case! Well, we do-"

" _We?"_

"Double homicide, except there's no murder weapon, no struggle-"

Viola shrugged, "Poison then."

"-Definitely not!"

"You're sure? Have you seen the bodies?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't have to." He saw how she stood taller, "Viola Seraphina, the game is on!"

He shot her a positively wicked grin.

She glanced at her mad-man of a parent over to John who seemed puzzled. Her hands went landed on her hips, "I'm sure it's illegal in England to bring unauthorised personnel to crime scenes."

"Well John accompanies me all the time and they don't bat an eyelid to that anymore."

She smirked.

Sherlock took this a positive incentive, his hands thrust out and held her upper arms. She looked as surprised. He suddenly realised he hadn't even touched her before. "Viola, I know you've been dying to show me how clever you really are. You completed your undergraduate degree in two years!"

"I didn't tell you that-"

"You didn't have to."

Sherlock saw the simmer of excitement stirring. They stared each other down, blue eyes against blue, black curls hanging in the air, heads slightly tilted.

"You're meant to be dangerous."

"I did get held at knifepoint today."

"Sherlock, I haven't even-"

"-Been to a live crime scene before, I know. But think about the _corpse,_ Viola. You're in a very specific field of research. Don't pretend you're not interested."

A beat passed. He let go of her arms and poised his hands in a temple under his chin, studying her.

"…Why?"

Sherlock grinned, "If you want to stay in the country with me- which by the way is a _very bad_ idea- You may as well become my apprentice."

"I don't _want_ to be your apprentice. Also, I'm twenty-one, I don't _need_ a guardian-"

"I want to understand you." Sherlock cut in, "Let me see you work."

Viola felt at odds. The logical part of her told her to leave, knowing that Sherlock was just using this to decipher information she didn't want to give. But the other part… The other part felt like she was being lifted into a whole realm of tantalising exhilaration. It gripped her. She felt it spreading with every beat of her heart, like an orchestra tuning in front of a waiting audience.

Viola narrowed her brow, took in a deep breath, before striking the first chord.

"You better not tell _mamma."_

"Trust me, the less she knows the better."

Viola snickered.

"Now go get dressed, you've got ten minutes."

She was out of the room in a shot, knowing she would have moved quicker if her ribs hadn't protested. Sherlock spun on his heels and looked proud. Too proud.

John- who Sherlock had forgotten was in the room- rested his head on the doorway, "Mind telling me what that was about?"

"John, let's just say if I believed in fate- although it's an abhorrent notion with absolutely no grounds- then mine may just be turning up."

John chuckled, but it faltered a little. "Is this about Molly?"

"Mm?"

"Molly. Is this change of mood, er… Her, related?"

Sherlock shrugged, "What gave you that impression?"

"You've been with her all night?" John stopped, he saw a funny expression flash on his friend's face, a flicker, "Oh my- Christ, what's happened with you two?"

"Never mind that, John- Stop gaping like a deranged goldfish!" Sherlock wrapped his scarf closer to himself, "The game, Doctor Watson, is on."

Seven minutes later, Sherlock Holmes and his daughter disappeared into the early morning air, the sun scarcely peaking over the horizon. John had asked where they were going, and Sherlock had barked something about a double homicide as the door closed. First, John didn't think twice. He thought that it was a good thing they could bond over. John went into the kitchen, knowing he was past sleep and made himself a strong coffee. After, he sat upon his settee, turned on the early morning news and waited for his daughter to rise.

And then a thought hit him, with such ferocity he burnt his tongue on the coffee.

 _This was not good._

He scrambled looking for his mobile for over a minute, and then paced as he called Mycroft's private line. After three rings, the politician, he also sounded in the land of the awake, answered. "Hi Mycroft, I think we have a problem."

" _Do spit it out Doctor Watson I haven't got all morning."_

"Sherlock's just left for a case-"

" _Yes I know, the double homicide at Kensington," A beat, "MI5 deemed it irrelevant to the current criminal activity against my brother before clearing Lestrade to reach for him."_

"Okay, that's great. But Sherlock's taken Viola with him."

John swore he heard a sigh over the line. _"I ordered you explicitly to keep her away until we have a better idea of what the situation is, Watson."_

He was shocked at the anger in Mycroft's voice. "She's an adult, Mycroft, I can't take full responsibility. She isn't a prisoner."

" _No, Watson. But this a problem. If we even considered these criminals didn't know who Viola is, or doubted her importance, there is no way they'll overlook her now."_

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter, a slightly different pace than the others so far!**

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 **Thanks for your support.**

 **E**


	9. White Noise

**AN- Thank you all for your support! I'm so grateful!**

 **Big chapter ahead for you, see you at the other side...**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs with those who hold copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

"Queen's Gate Gardens, Kensington Borough please."

Life, in it's simplest form, is a chronological series of events witnessed by a person. One could not predict the future, and fate couldn't tempt it. Every moment was a result of decisions that reacted to each other, like air particles meeting in the atmosphere.

Sherlock Holmes considered what particles had to meet to spin this event into existence.

The Detective and his daughter, off to solve a crime.

Mere hours after Molly Hooper had seemingly changed his life.

Viola was sat beside him, trying very hard not to show how excited she really was. She'd pulled her hair up into a loose bun, similar to what her mother had worn the day before. There was a boyish quality about it. However, for the first time she had worn makeup to cover up the physicals tells of her exhaustion. A small line of black eyeliner, blemishes covered, and a faint dash of red on her lips. Femininity graced her easily.

Sherlock watched Viola carefully as they approached their destination. He saw the police car lights dance on her skin and illuminate her irises. She held herself together tightly.

Sherlock found himself forcing his body not to smile. Instead, he focused on the road ahead, catching glances at forensics mulling around, and Lestrade who stood barking into a phone.

"Viola, are you ready for your first live double homicide?"

Viola's lips pressed into a line as she to tried to remain subtle. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

Sherlock flourished with vigour as he left the car. It was remarkably quiet for an area of crime. However, it was not yet 6am, an London's rich had yet to stir from their sleep. Sherlock confidently strode around the front of the car, catching Lestrade give him a wave from a distance.

Lestrade, upon seeing Sherlock, quickly terminated his phone call. Sally appeared at his side, "He's here then?"

"Thirty-six minutes," Lestrade shrugged, "He's getting slow."

Their smirks turned into confusion. Sherlock leaned into the car and helped a young woman out. She grasped onto his shoulder for support.

Lestrade made a beeline towards the pair, "Erm, Sherlock, mate? Who's this?"

Sherlock's hands clasped behind his back. "Ah, Lestrade, I'd like to introduce you to Viola."

"Yeah that's great Sherlock but we have two corpses in there, maybe she can just move along?"

"She's my apprentice, she's coming here to investigate this case."

"She's your-" Greg shook his head, "Sherlock this isn't really the best time or place to bring strangers to-"

"Strangers?" Sherlock suddenly registered Lestrade's confusion... He _didn't know_. Lestrade had been at Musgrave Hall, he had seen to Eurus' return to Sherrinford. Although Mycroft had forced the police to leave everything as a cold case, he genuinely thought Lestrade had known. Mycroft must have left it from the narrative.

Mycroft still didn't want people to know Viola existed.

The thought made Sherlock's blood boil.

"Why wouldn't she be a stranger?" Greg glanced over at the woman, who looked startlingly like Holmes, "Do I know you?"

"Erm," Viola started nervously, "I don't, erm, not met you."

There was a pause.

"Nope. No way. Sherlock, she can't even speak decent English. It's _illega_ l-"

"You let John do it all the time-"

"John is a _doctor,_ Sherlock, not some kid."

"Lestrade she is qualified in Forensic Anthropology. Probably more intelligent than this entire division. Now, you're wasting valuable time. I'm doing this and Viola is coming with me."

Forcefully, he went past them.

"Sherlock it isn't 'bring your daughter to work day!'" Sally cooed.

His belstaff spun smoothly as he pivoted back to them. "In fact, I think you'll find it is," He lifted the police tape into the air with one hand, "Come on Viola."

Viola caught the horrified expressions forming on their faces, and she quickly shuffled past them.

* * *

The house embodied every single British stereotype she'd ever heard, mused Viola. The terraced property was Victorian and seemed carved with history.

In the master bedroom, lay two bodies. _Two people,_ she corrected herself, who's justice relied on her intelligence. She was anxious, the stares she was getting from forensics weren't kind ones.

Viola wasn't a detective, nor had she taken part in a real criminal investigation before. Her research focused on identifying the cause of death on corpses- more so skeletal remains- to aid in criminal cases and archaeological research. Seeing two people looking so _fresh_ and _real_ made her feel out of her depth.

She watched Sherlock stalk the room eagerly, and was momentarily mesmerized. Suddenly, he wasn't the man dealing with huge changes in his life. He was a man in his element.

The two victims were middle-aged. One male, who was balding, laid slumped on the floor. The other, a woman, laid across the bed, arms splayed.

Viola's head turned as she saw the two people from earlier, and a man with ungainly black hair come in.

"For God's sake, Lestrade! When did you start letting Anderson back onto these cases?"

"He's the best for this, Sherlock, you know that." The DI counteracted.

Sherlock pouted, but then stood poised, "These two have been engaging in an affair for eighteen months and three days. She's widowed, he's still married. He still wears his wedding ring, but it's removed-"

"-We took it as evidence" Anderson cut in devotedly.

" _Clever._ She came to Kensington for five days, on the pretence of a business trip. At least that's what she stated to her son in Derbyshire before she left two days ago."

"How did you-"

"Look at her nail varnish." He finalised simply. "But it's interesting, no wounds, no signs of poisoning, they look almost-"

"Asleep, yes that's what we thought." Lestrade cut in with a slight nod.

Sherlock glanced between the corpses, before suddenly turning to his daughter who stood on the sidelines looking bewildered, "What do you think, Viola?"

The room quietened by half, Viola felt all eyes on her. Had gossip about her been passed around within _four minutes?_

"I can't follow, when you talk that er, quick."

Anderson suddenly gasped, "Is she Italian?!"

The unfashionable man suddenly dashed to the young woman, and held out an arm, "Hello," He spoke to her fluently, "The names Anderson, myself and Sherlock go _way_ back."

Sally howled at Sherlock's disturbed expression.

Viola knitted her brows, looking between the enthusiastic man and his gloved hand, "Erm, hello. I'm Viola."

"It's a pleasure."

Sherlock held his hands open, " _You_ speak Italian?"

"Of course I do. My parents are from Positano, did you not deduce it?"

"Deleted it."

Lestrade suddenly cut through, "Well isn't this _nice_." Sherlock fisted his hands, "Sherlock I'll strike you a deal. She gets ten minutes, as long as Anderson supervises."

" _What?!"_

"You heard me."

"I won't have her exposed to his idiocy! The man thought sulphur was a _metallic element_!"

"Sherlock, it's Anderson or no case."

"You do realise letting her in the same room as him decreases her mental capacity by at least sixty-seven percent."

" _Sherlock."_

They met each other's eyes in a fierce competition. Sherlock was disgraced to see on this occasion, that Lestrade wasn't going to relent.

There was a brief pause, wherein Sherlock stood like a child. Slowly, he stepped around the bodies and over to Lestrade, offering a dark look to Anderson who started to excitedly explain to Viola what they were facing.

In a deathly quiet voice, Lestrade spoke to his friend, "Does John know?"

"Does John know what?"

"About… _This._ Bloody hell, Sherlock, I've known you for over a decade, did you ever think to tell me you had a child?"

"I didn't know she existed until four days ago."

Lestrade thought for a moment, and cursed under his breath, "You found out at S _herrinford?"_

"Mmm. She was one of the young people that Eurus kidnapped," He glanced at Lestrade, "I presume my bother informed you."

"Yeah." Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair, "How old is she?"

"Twenty-one. I was eighteen when I unknowingly created offspring."

A brief silence filled the pair, Sherlock seemed happy to keep watching Viola.

"Is…" Lestrade struggled to find the words, "I mean, are you alright?"

Images of Maria, John, Eurus, Viola, and a flash of Molly sprung into his vision. "Shockingly… I don't think it's as bad as it could be."

Lestrade let out a short laugh, "I didn't even think you were capable of sex, to be honest."

"Well, you stand corrected."

"I'll probably have to give Molly a call then," He chuckled without thinking, and then stopped. He'd seen a very peculiar expression pass over his friend's face. Like a wave. "You… You and Molly?" He whispered, "Seriously?"

"Don't you have anything better to do-"

Viola's head shot up, "Sherlock! Come look at this!"

Conversation forgotten, the detective's dashed over to Viola, meeting her at either side. Her eyes were absolutely striking in intelligence. Sherlock found himself perplexed. The expression was one of his own.

She knelt on the ground next to the male victim, analysing everything with a detailed gaze. "For a research project at University, I carried out an investigation into human assistance appliances as murder weapons." Anderson quickly started to translate for Lestrade. "I think Scotland Yard are wrong on _both_ accounts, there is both a murder weapon _and_ poison being used."

"Show me."

Sherlock crouched down quickly, so they were level.

Viola reached out to the man's face, and gently pulled his eyelid's open. Sherlock's head tilted with intrigue.

"You see his contact lens? It's glazed over, just a fraction. Given its composition, it should be both pliable and transparent, but it's lacking in both. I estimate it has around a +1.75 power, judging by the relation to the base curve of around 8-"

"8.7" Sherlock cut in.

"It's slightly yellowed. Now, of course, yellowing of these items can be considered normal if you account for proteins and lipid materials that a human being would produce over time creating a biofilm, but that takes an incredible long time of exposure. I think someone has tampered with them, laced them with something." Viola nodded over to the bed, "The lady on the bed confirms this."

"How?"

"She's wearing the exact same ones. People don't just _wear_ the same lenses. It's far too rare to see it. Someone has poisoned these, they've infected the bloodstream or neuro-system, probably the latter considering its proximity. Caused a reaction similar to an aneurysm, and killed them quietly. You're looking for an optician, and-" She opened her gloved palm showing a small receipt, "I found their number."

Viola gulped in air as she finished speaking. She was met by silence. Insecurity suddenly bubbled in her.

Lestrade stared, "…Oh my God."

"Fantastic," Sherlock breathed in English. It had taken her _three minutes._

 _His daughter was exceptional._

"Do you think I got it?" Viola asked in a small voice.

Sherlock wanted to scream it from the rooftops. He suddenly wished Molly was there.

He slipped back into Italian, "Viola, you're… Brilliant."

She let out a laugh, "I thought you were going to accuse me of taking all that from the overly enthusiastic forensic."

"Never. I'm…" _Proud of you,_ He wanted to say. "I'm impressed by your intellectual capabilities."

"Good, because let's be honest," She leaned in a little, "That Anderson man clearly lowers the IQ of the whole room."

A long silence passed, then Sherlock's lips pulled into a smirk, that pulled into a grin. And suddenly, with the prowess of a lion, he threw his head back, and roared with laughter.

* * *

With a distinct click, toast popped out of the toaster. Humming a jazz classic idly, Molly went about preparing breakfast. Molly had slept that night better than she had done since the Sherrinford incident. And she knew why. It was all her mind played over on a loop.

Molly was an intelligent woman and prided herself on that fact. She should have felt proud, for distracting Sherlock. She knew she was protecting him, Viola, and his family by keeping it this way. Any spy would've complimented her for her improvisation.

Molly was caught in a two-sided situation. On the one hand, her and Sherlock had… It was almost too surreal to think about. Yet the other part was guilty, terrified, and wanted out. Because she knew this had the potential to destroy a good thing before it started.

Molly was incredibly relieved to have woken up alone. She desired the space and imagined Sherlock did too. He'd left a note on her fridge stating he had a case.

Sitting down alone on her kitchen table, she'd taken a singular bite of toast when her phone pinged.

 **Sending a car. Ten minutes away.**

 **MH**

Her stomach dropped. What would she say to Mycroft? Did he know?

With trepidation, Molly left her breakfast and quickly went to get dressed. Her mind pouring over the events of the night before.

* * *

Sherlock _watched the pathologist raise her head slowly, Brown eyebrows caught in thought. She took a moment, and he could see a decision made. For in the next moment, she caught his gaze with a steadfast determination- Please let this work- She took four steps, each of them quicker_ thn _the other, looped an arm around the back of his neck…_

 _And pulled him down to kiss her._

Sherlock felt her lips, chastely pressing against his.

Ravenous thoughts stilled. Moriarty fell into the abyss. Eurus' philosophies fell into a hum of nothingness. Deductions, literature and science, stopped.

It was almost like white noise. The orchestra fell silent. The conductor waited for his next cue.

As Molly's lips edged from contact, he realised he hadn't breathed. _What had we been discussing before?_ His brow furrowed as he considered how he could forget.

Inches apart, she breathed a small phrase. "I know you want me. That is what I know."

Sherlock wanted to deduce, to perceive and rationalise. But he was frozen. She wanted him. And he wanted her. It had taken over a decade for them to reach this point, but here it was.

As they parted, Sherlock's hands found her lower arms. "You're more powerful than cocaine."

For a moment, Molly forgot how to speak. Her mouth pulled into a slightest grin, "Is that a compliment?"

"Don't make jokes, Molly."

"No, erm- I mean, I don't-"

"My head became silent," He frowned, but his eyes shone with amazement, "Everything was still. ...I don't recall anything having such a profound effect on me before."

The pathologist watched him intensely, trying to pick apart the meaning on his words. "Can we talk?"

"We're already engaged in auditory comm-"

"No, Sherlock," Molly nervously took one of his hands, and felt relief when he didn't force it away, "We need to talk about _this_."

"I do not deal with tedious-."

"Please," She furthered, "For me."

Sherlock agreed in a simple phrase, and they both steeled themselves for the talk they never thought they'd be having.

Ever the facilitator, Molly led them both to her settee. She clutched the edges of a powder pink throw in her small hands. Sherlock found himself investigating the small tea splashes on the coffee table, analysing the temperature, and the angle and speed in which they had hit the surface.

Molly watched his stoic presence carefully. Her plan had worked, he was distracted. Guilt suddenly gripped her, hard, as she realised their first ever proper kiss, or only one, was the result of lies. Lies orchestrated by Mycroft Holmes.

"Molly, why did you kiss me?"

Molly forced some semblance of composure on herself. She had to tread carefully now. "...Because I wanted to, and you wanted me to, I guess." The lie burned her throat like acid.

Sherlock didn't look at her, "How did you reach this conclusion?"

"...I saw it."

"You saw it?"

"When that man held a knife to my throat, you looked more terrified then I'd ever seen you." Cautiously, she gripped the throw tightly in her hand, "I know our relationship has changed, I don't know when, but for the first time I feel like my love for you isn't rejected-"

"I don't love you." Sherlock cut in quickly, echoing his words from a couple of nights before.

suddenly, Molly remembered John's _words "I think he could love you with all his heart and yet never find the courage to say it out loud."_

Molly reached out for her mug of tea. "Yet you still kissed me. The other morning, and now, today."

"It appears so."

"Sherlock, listen, I know you're under a lot of stress right now… I just need to understand how you've reached this point."

"At which point are you referring to?"

"The one in which you can kiss me, and not run for the hills."

For the first time, Sherlock glanced over at her. Everything told him to leave. Molly was far too emotional, yet the thought of abandoning this venture made him uneasy. Could he really be honest about the chemical reactions in his brain pertaining to her?

"Molly, this won't be a good idea. You are an anomaly and always have been. I've used you. I've seen your love for a long time and used it to my _advantage_. Yet… I admit you are a staple in my life. Tonight, you threw yourself in the line of danger to save me. If I were to reciprocate, you do realise you put yourself at a huge risk. ...And I rationalise that losing you could destroy me."

Molly frowned. Sherlock only saw the negative side of sentimental attachment. But then Molly saw it. Sentiment had caused his fake death and absence for two years. Sentiment Mary held over him had caused her death. Sentiment had caused the Holmes' to keep Eurus and Viola hidden. That night, it was sentiment that had forced him to beg drug addicts on the street to let her go.

Sherlock viewed sentiment as a detrimental element, because to him, it was.

Molly didn't know what forced her actions, but she reached out and gently took his free hand. "If you were a different man, if you were not Sherlock Holmes, what would you do, right now?"

Under his wrist, Molly felt his pulse quicken a fraction. The motion sent vibrations between them both.

Sherlock's gaze drifted down Molly's arm towards their joined hands. "It's a theory we shouldn't be indulging."

"Why?"

"Because our reality isn't that simple."

A sad laugh escaped her throat, "I wish you could be selfish."

The words Sherlock found were ones he never thought he'd speak. "If I was selfish… I would kiss you, I would show you my thoughts through physical action. I would allow the white noise to take over. The ground we walk upon has changed. Regretfully, however, I must reiterate that I _am_ Sherlock Holmes, and this will destroy us both."

"I know."

"What?"

"I know it will destroy us."

Sherlock blinked at the woman who had become ever an enigma.

Molly's fingers traced the callouses of his hand, "I've lived with an unrequited affection for so long. It destroyed my engagement to Tom. I had to admit to wanting to be selfish, to love a man who was incapable of it. I know it's dangerous, and run with risks, but I've accepted it. Sherlock, if you can accept it to live for yourself and not for anyone else, just once..."

Sherlock let go of her hand. "You wish me to selfish?"

"Hiding feelings hurts."

"Molly, you deserve more."

"Yet I've chosen you."

Sherlock saw that this was it. No turning back. The orchestra in his mind had her placed at the front, the soloist.

If he lifted the baton and waved down the first beat, when would the music end? Was it worth it? He heard melodies, complex harmonies, soaring through his synapses gracefully, jarring and tragic and beautiful.

He pivoted a little.

"If I am to be selfish, I will not be held accountable for the inevitable heartbreak."

Molly's heart skipped a beat. "Sherlock, you're pessimism never ceases to impress."

She smiled, and to her delight, she saw the corners of his mouth pulling upwards. He wanted this… He wanted her.

Sherlock met Molly with a gaze so intense words failed her. His ice eyes burned her heart. Molly felt her heart rise to her throat, immediately finding them stepping to a pinnacle point of a dream. She couldn't take her eyes away.

Air stopped circulating when he reached out and brushed her cheek with his palm. "I'm about to do something very reckless."

"What-"

"I'm going to be selfish."

Then he kissed her. What had been white noise originally suddenly was a symphony. Passion, that Molly had felt for a decade, raised to the surface. Sherlock pulled her against him, finally feeling the closeness he had craved. She was safe, she was real, and she was his. Molly's hands found his hair. Music flowed like rivers. Their music. It felt like home. Before he had even acknowledged it, they were a set of tangled limbs, Molly laid with Sherlock above her, hands exploring each other's bodies urgently. Electricity pounded through Sherlock's body, he leant down and started placing kisses on Molly's neck-

 _Emotional Context Sherlock, it destroys you-_

A small moan fell from Molly's lips, Sherlock grasped-

 _No one told you-_

He could be selfish, he could feel, he could-

 _Because you aren't capable of the love._

Anxiety grabbed him angrily-

 _Say it like you mean it-_

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut- _Shut up!_ His head turned and he rested it on Molly's chest.

 _I love you._

Body shaking with desire, Molly felt her heart stop as Sherlock's head suddenly fall on her chest. Something was wrong. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Hands finding material either side of her, he pressed upwards. Molly couldn't help but gasp at his flushed expression. His lips were swollen, hair messy, pupils wide. He was perfect. This was Sherlock Holmes undone.

"Sherlock?"

The detective shrugged, "Sensory overload."

"Didn't realise I was that good-"

"Shut up."

They both let out a small laugh. Molly noticed his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Clumsily, she managed to push herself upright as well. "Are we okay?"

"Of course."

"...There's no pressure, not ever."

He managed a small nod. "...I don't want John to know, or Viola. Anyone, for that matter. For now. We need to figure this out together first"

Molly looked up at him, "I was going to say the same."

In agreement, a silence of contentment settled over them. And their hearts were warm. Later, they slept. Separate, but a singular hand joined them.

Sherlock didn't speak of the doubts spinning around his skull.

Molly didn't voice her fear of the risks of Sherlock and his family having just heightened in severity.

Yet, somehow, it was still beautiful.

* * *

"Lemon drizzle cake?"

Molly frowned at the small cake on antique china and shook her head no. Mycroft seemed non-plussed, returning it to its cabinet. Molly had been brought to the Diogenes Club four times over the past decade and hated it. It was a hub for aristocrats without a singular progressive cell in their body. She didn't know why Mycroft bothered to maintain appearances in such a place.

The elder Holmes eyes glanced over Molly swiftly. A singular eyebrow raised. "I see your relationship with my brother has progressed."

"…Have you bugged my flat?"

"No," He gave her a calculated glare, "It's your clothing choice."

Molly suddenly felt subconscious.

Mycroft folded his arms, "I did intend to bring Doctor Watson here, but his behaviour hasn't been appropriate-"

"What do you mean?"

"It appears he allowed Sherlock to run off to a crime scene with Viola this morning." Mycroft analysed the shock on her face, "You're an intelligent woman. You see how idiotic that was." The politician paused, "I do hope you're treading more carefully."

"Mycroft-"

"My brother doesn't do relationships, Miss Hooper. I see you have become a blip in his system."

Molly grasped the spot between her brows, "He was onto your operation, he knew something was amiss. I had to distract him."

"…You seduced him?"

"Sedu- No. I mean, I don't think so?" She grimaced, "I had to stop him thinking. So I did."

Mycroft pensively thought for a moment, "It worked?"

"…He didn't mention anything after."

Mycroft seemed impressed and bemused, "Genius Sherlock Holmes made forgetful after kissing a woman… How _primal."_

Molly gritted her teeth, "Please, Mycroft. Have you got any further? I just want us all to get on with our lives. I want Sherlock to-" She wanted to say _be able to be with me,_ but stopped herself, "Be able to concentrate on Viola."

Mycroft offered her a look that suggested he'd seen right through her words, but didn't comment on it. His hands poised his hands into a temple, "I fear it is worse than we anticipated."

"…Worse?"

"Yesterday we had a break in on Baker Street, flat 113B. They left one of Sherlock's scarves that should have been destroyed in the flat explosion." He saw Molly's anxiety, "I assure you, I have my best people on it."

"What am I to do?"

"Keep him distracted," He responded plainly, "Don't let Viola out on her own. Make sure Sherlock tries to keep her out of the public eye. This group is watching him carefully. They're desperately seeking his attention, and I know they'll use her, or you, to do it." Mycroft, in a gesture like his brothers, pressed his chin against the tips of his fingers. "I stick to my former resolution, that this group will be dissembled by the end of the week."

"And if they aren't?"

"We shall observe when the time comes."

Molly bit her lip, and after a moment, decided she would leave. She made her brief farewells. As she fastened her coat and made her way to the door, Mycroft uttered words that stunned her.

"Be careful with my brother, he has a fragile heart."

* * *

Fifty-three minutes later, Molly was at work, and the distraction was a perfect remedy for the frivolity of her life.

Here, she was in control.

In her usual fashion, she wheeled out her first patient of the day. She made quick work of assembling the body on her table, and checked her equipment. In front of her was an elderly lady who had been caught in a motor incident the day before.

For a while, everything was routine.

She weighed organs, checked for any abnormalities, took specimins to run tests on.

That's when she saw it.

A small white corner, poking in between the space of the woman's armpit and arm. Molly frowned, but didn't think it was too unusual. Neatly, she widened the gap and removed the note.

And everything fell apart.

It was a disposable photograph. Sherlock and Viola, stood over the body of a corpse. They were grinning at each other. In the back ground, she saw the back of Lestrade, and a shadow of Anderson at the side.

This was from today.

 _Today._

The back of the photograph had a small written message.

" _A poor woman had to crash to deliver this… Oh well. Did they like my gift? Oh, and please, ask Viola a question for me. Ti sono mancata?"_

Molly stood backwards so quickly her table of equipment fell to the floor. The scalpels and bowls clattered loudly. She didn't register abandoning the room, pulling her gloves off, and grabbing her phone.

 _They knew about Viola._

Molly opened Sherlock's contact, and her finger held over the 'call button'. She was shaking.

 _He can't know._

Regret and anger burned like fire in her veins. Her stomach twisted. _Breathe._ She needed Sherlock. She _needed_ him.

 _If he knows then everyone could get hurt. He could get hurt._

The pain she felt moving off his contact was immeasurable. It felt like a betrayal. She felt his lips and knew that this was never ever going to end well.

She almost called Mycroft, but found in the moment she couldn't. Shaking had now turned into tremors. But she managed to set the phone ringing.

Eight seconds later, it was answered, "Molls, you okay? I'm at work-"

"John, I need you." She sobbed, "They know about Viola and I don't-," Another sob, "Please don't leave me on my own."

"I'm on my way."

* * *

 **A pretty review box, just for you? How amazing!**

 **PS- I'm now back to full-time lessons at University, but endeavour to maintain an even update schedule best I can. See you at the next one!**


	10. Precipice of Knowing

**AN- Thank you for all your support! I will never tire of it. :-)**

 **A reminder! Viola has discovered the cause of death in a murder investigation after just three minutes. Molly and Sherlock have kissed. Lastly, Molly has discovered a photo of Sherlock and Viola on a body at work and has called John in panic.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

Tangible excitement danced in Viola's stomach.

She was sat in a surveillance van, watching Scotland Yard carry out the arrest of the murderer of the two victims' found that morning. Anderson was sat next to her, seemingly have become her 'guardian'.

She watched as Sherlock appeared at the front of the group, waving his arms and ordering them about.

"So," Rudely, Sally addressed Viola, "You're the consulting detective's spawn."

"Is he always the," Viola paused, finding the word and ignoring Sally's comment, "Boss?"

"Boss?" Sally laughed snidely, "No, although he likes to think he is."

Viola grimaced at woman's impolite tone. If her English was better, she would have had some _fantastic_ retorts up her sleeve. Telling herself to learn some English insults for future reference, she decided to focus upon the operation. Nine minutes later, a lady was arrested, kicking and screaming. Viola thought of the dead couple and their pained expression and was proud. She's brought them justice.

* * *

John dashed through the underground station. He fumbled aimlessly for his Oyster card, flicked through the barriers, and made his way through the grey cave of St Paul's station into the light. To St Bartholomew's Hospital.

To Molly.

Molly had never been so relieved to hear familiar footsteps. Her right hand which had been gripping onto a scalpel for protection instantly relaxed.

John Watson burst into the morgue.

For a moment, they stood still.

Heart in her throat, and the feeling of Sherlock's lips on hers running through her head, Molly wordlessly reached into er pocket, and held out the photograph. She felt sick with guilt. She wanted Sherlock by her side.

John cautiously took the photograph from her small hand. Molly saw his lips part, his eyebrows rising and then falling, and his body stiffen.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke, "Where was it?"

"On Mrs Wiltshire's body," Molly clarified slowly, "It's from- "

"Today, yes I can see that." John took in a slow deep breath and stepped next to a slab that was devoid of human matter. The photograph burned through his palm. John placed it down and seemed to vibrate with tension. "Does Mycroft know?"

"Not yet."

John nodded, stilled, and then with the force of a caged animal, swung his fist down on the table. The metal cried out, and Molly jumped.

"Jesus," Hissed John, "What the hell do we do?"

"…I don't know."

John turned the photograph over and read the words on the other side.

' _A poor woman had to crash to deliver this… Oh well. Did they like my gift? Oh, and please, ask Viola a question for me. Ti sono mancata?'_

"Ti sono…" His eyebrows fused together, "What does that mean?"

"I," Molly forced down a wave of hot tears, "I searched it. It means 'Did you miss me?'"

There was an elongated silence.

"No," John shook his head with a dark laugh, "I'm not doing this. No."

"John- "

"I'm telling Sherlock. He needs to know. No- Sorry Molly, this has gone too far. He's in danger-"

Molly urgently approached, slamming her hand over the photograph. "-You know we can't."

"Why not?" His voice raised, "Christ, Molly! Don't you see? Mycroft is an idiot; Sherlock's life is in danger and we're letting him swan around like a free man. He has a _daughter_ , for God's sake." John ran a hand through his hair, "If Viola is hurt he will never stop blaming himself, he won't stop blaming us."

Molly winced. She knew it was true. A tear fell.

John saw her expression break, and his anger dissipated. Quickly, he wrapped Molly in his arms. She buried her head in his shoulder, and he felt her shaking.

"What if they hurt him, John?" She murmured, lifting her head a little, "Or me, or you, any of us… Mycroft is clueless you know, his agents are stumped."

John relented his grasp on her, "He's made no progress?"

"I saw him earlier," Molly lamented, "It's got worse."

Johns face twisted with curiosity, so Molly filled him in. As John heard about the break-in of one of the flats on Baker Street, decorated with one of Sherlock's scarves, he paled. This must've been planned for a while. Years ago, Eurus had met with Moriarty for five minutes. They thought she had only gone as far as to plan the events at Sherrinford, but did it go further than that? John still didn't know how either party had discovered Viola, or how this could have been orchestrated. They were facing an unknown stalker, or stalkers, decorated with the dark cloak of Jim Moriarty.

John spoke gravely, "Sherlock's going to be broken if he realises he didn't destroy Moriarty's network completely." His eyes betrayed his grief, "...He literally gave his life to ensure it."

Nodding numbly, Molly met her gaze with John's. "I'm terrified of how far he'll go to protect us this time."

A wave of silent understanding passed over them both.

No, they couldn't tell him, not yet.

Together, they contacted Mycroft, who sent over a team of four special agents to the morgue. It was at this point that John suggested they leave, the less they saw the better. The more they knew, the more Sherlock had the potential of seeing. Molly saw Mike Stanford, lied about her being shaken after nearly being knifed the day before- and he gladly let her go.

 _More lies,_ she lamented solemnly.

* * *

Viola followed Sherlock down the paved street. They remained quiet. Sherlock moved between tourists and commuters with an aloof demeanour. It was almost as if he couldn't see them. Viola, however, found the multitude of human activity disarming; constantly altering her gait to avoid an accidental collision.

Viola found herself wondering how a person could reside in a city like this and be acclimatised. She glanced at Sherlock, with his collar towards the sky. She was in awe of his confidence. London was his home. He was as one with the skyline as the very Tower of London.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock finally tilted his head down in her direction and led them over to a short wall overlooking the Thames.

As the sunset drew close, a beacon of blistering orange cut across the river, against the blue and grey in the sky. Buildings were transformed into silhouettes. Viola found herself gazing at the illustrious shadow of the Houses of Parliament, dominated by Big Ben.

Placing his hands against the railings, Sherlock spoke in Italian, "That's the London Eye, over there."

Viola glanced at the huge structure, the cause of the crowds, and smirked, "I didn't realise you dragged me here to go sightseeing."

Sherlock matched her smirk, "Tedious. I thought you'd enjoy the view."

Viola watched the sun's rays dance upon the water, "Is this Westminster?"

"No. The Southbank. Westminster is across the river, it's a relatively small area considering its importance."

Sherlock looked out at the water, "You acted successfully today."

He was talking about the case. "I'm surprised you seem impressed."

"You are?" He frowned, "Well, one could attribute it to beginners' luck if one believed in such a notion."

"You don't?"

"Obviously not."

Looking up through dark eyelashes, she glimpsed at the detective curiously, "…Is this some ill-fated attempt at a compliment?"

"You're very intelligent, Viola. More than I gave you credit for."

Her cheeks coloured, and she stood a little taller, "Like you, you mean?"

"Don't flatter yourself, I said you were clever. Not a genius."

Viola rolled her eyes and laid her arms against the stone. Her expression became pensive, "Sherlock, why did you ask me to come today?"

The detective stilled, and she noticed. Deep down, he was considering _why_ himself. When he had awoken with Lestrade calling, it had been a welcome distraction. Despite feeling oddly attached to Molly Hooper's proximity, he was itching to get away. This venture they had stumbled upon together was more intense than he'd ever imagined. It turns out, spending time with his daughter was less terrifying than staying with Molly. Taking Viola to the case _was_ a welcome distraction.

"Considering the evidence, I must say it's because I wanted to."

Puzzlement laid on her for a moment, "I presumed it was because you were trying to get information out of me."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, "What sort of information?"

He knew what. The reason behind her panic the day before.

"Sherlock you don't know me very well at all. There's a lot you don't know."

Registering the defence in her tone, Sherlock found himself compelled to be honest. If she didn't react well, then so be it. He wanted to demonstrate that he could be trustworthy. "Your mother told me you had a stalker."

Viola's face flushed with pure panic as if she'd been doused in hot oil. Sherlock saw her eyebrows raise, eyes widen, and jaw drop. Everything was subtle and passed within a moment, but it was raw. …Too raw.

"Why did she tell you that?"

"Maria considered my knowing to be in the benefit of your wellbeing."

"Rubbish," She admonished sharply, "She's trying to scare you off."

"Well, that was never going to work. Viola Seraphina, I've dealt with a lot worse. Some man being obsessed with you years ago is hardly going to put me off getting to know you."

Viola was shocked again at Sherlock's want to know her. Part of her worried he'd deduced the note that she had found in John's house, but his indifference on the matter suggested otherwise. In a smaller voice, she began, "He was my friend for years before it happened. It… It was meant to be different."

"Different how?"

Her eyes watched a small boat passing by. "I've found myself going through funny phases growing up, reactions to mamma's drug problem. She'd constantly switch from being overbearing to totally indifferent. There was a period when I'd act like a hopeless romantic just to feel wanted." She caught Sherlock's eyes, drenched in curiosity, "I sought the affections of person after person, just to prove some point about my independence to mamma-"

The detective saw her blush.

"-But it ended in tears, of course. I'd go crying to my best friend, Matteo. He knew me better than anyone. …He was the only person I told about you after your brother informed me who you were." Viola's blinked away sadness, "After a while, we found each other, and it was… Good. I noticed signs of toxicity, but I ignored them. Until he started asking things of me I didn't want to do, and not backing down. "

Sherlock's palm gripped the wall tighter as a wave of protectiveness hit him at the underlying meaning of her words. It shocked him that he felt so angry.

"I broke it off. But he wasn't going to take it so lightly. It started with apology letters, then him 'accidentally' bumping into me, the feeling of being watched…" She sighed, "I hid it from mamma as long as I could. But, then the photos started. I'd find them everywhere, photos of me going about my life with little notes behind them-"

"What did they say?"

Viola paused, but the words fell from her lips like waves. "'I miss you', 'I love you', 'I want you'… They gradually got worse. Threatening. In the end, it was caught out just in time. My Papa," Sherlock frowned, "No- my step-papa, he caught him… In the house, waiting for me to come home." She shivered, "He was arrested, and he's still serving time." _Yet his handwriting arrived on the doorstep yesterday, and you have no idea how._

Sherlock's focus on her story was momentarily swept away when the word Papa fell from her lips, and it struck him with a funny emotion that it wasn't in relation to him. But, he efficiently flicked his attention back to her. How did he act now… Sympathetic? Clinical? He wished Molly was there to help him. The story was hardly relevant to anything, but he saw what it meant. It showed Viola opening up to him, it showed she was starting to trust him.

Carefully, puzzling over his facial reaction, he spoke, "I'm… Sorry, you went through that."

She turned her head to face him fully, deep, anxious, and sorrowful. Then, Viola laughed softly, surprising him "You really hate the sympathetic act, don't you?"

The tension seemed to dissipate. "Navigating that area of human reaction is awfully confusing."

Viola opened her mouth to speak but was cut off as Sherlock's phone sprang to life.

"…Aren't you going to answer that?"

"No."

"It could be important?"

"It isn't."

Viola's hand fell on her hip, "Why not?"

Blue eyes met blue. He stood straighter. "It's my parents. Trying to come and meet you. I don't wish to give them the pleasure."

"Your parents… My-"

"Grandparents, yes."

Viola was shocked. She hadn't even considered grandparents in this whole situation. Her heart tightened nervously. Growing up, it had been her nonna that raised her. A kind lady with white hair and olive skin, grounded by strong opinions. She loved her, more than she did her mother. Just over a year ago, she had died; Viola had accepted the independence that fell upon her as it did. Knowing she had other grandparents felt partially like an invasion, but also, an opportunity she couldn't pass. She'd give anything to see her nonna again.

Sherlock watched the colours of her face shifting rapidly. He hadn't expected her to be so affected. Eventually, she spoke, Italian tones falling from her slowly, "Why can't I meet them?"

"Viola, they were the orchestrators in this plot to keep your existence hidden from me. Mycroft, as controlling as he is, didn't make the original decision. They did."

Are they good people?"

Sherlock froze, "Clarify good?"

"I mean, are they… Decent? Do they treat people kindly? Do they care about you?"

Viola watched the detective's cheek twitch, and she saw he wasn't used to being confronted like this.

"They are not _bad_ people."

"I want to meet them."

Sherlock spun to look at her fully, "Viola-"

"It's not your decision, Sherlock." She looked up at him decisively, "I'm an independent adult and if I would like to meet my grandparents I will do so."

"It's because of their abhorrent behaviour I have missed the last two decades of your existence."

Viola tried to ignore the emotions raising within her at the depth of betrayal in his voice. "Just tell me this, did they think it was right because they cared?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock turned away from her. "They thought me being ignorant would help preserve my life."

"Then I shall not hold it against them."

Resolute silence hung over them for a few minutes, both inundated in their own heads. Sherlock pictured Molly and pondered what she would make of this situation. Part of him ached to see her, an absurd reaction, he thought.

With deft hands, he reached into his pockets. "I have a present for you."

"For me? Why?"

"Because you single-handedly helped catch a criminal today." With one hand, Sherlock withdrew a small dish, passing it over to Viola.

She took it, stared, and her head lifted in shock, "You s _tole_ the contact lenses?"

"Anderson looks over his evidence containers with zero care. Plus, it's only two of the four."

"It's evidence," She chastised, but she was grinning, "Someone's alibi could depend on this!"

"But you solved the case." Reasoned Sherlock smoothly.

"Yes, I suppose, but why-"

"I figured you could run a toxicology report on it. Conduct research."

Her face lit up, and Sherlock decided he liked that expression. Viola gazed between him and the small container, "You're _such_ a bad influence."

"Come on, Molly should still be working. Let's go and run some tests." Swiftly, Sherlock spun on his heel and started walking away.

Viola blinked, laughed, and jogged after him.

 _A man watched them walk away. Jealousy bit his skin like ants on the surface. Quickly, he removed a mobile from his pocket, punched in numbers, and held it against his ear. "Ahmed, it's me. Yeah. They've left, said they're going to that hospital again- yeah pal, of course. We need something bigger, something that's going to reach the news- What do you mean, not yet? We don't have- Ah, yeah, I see. Have you got someone on the elder Holmes too? Good. Sherlock's not going to know what's hit him. He'll see us soon."_

* * *

"Molly?" Sherlock's deep baritone echoed through the laboratory.

It was deserted.

Viola, following behind the detective, found herself admiring the equipment in awe. Molly kept everything meticulous, even for a specialist registrar. She wondered if at some point they could work together.

Sherlock's mind was furthest from Viola's, as anxiety started to emanate from his skull, and drip downwards. _Where was she?_ He saw the remnants of lunch on her office desk, and a cup of tea that had gone ice cold. He shouldn't worry. She was fine. She'd just be-

A tall Asian man walked in, dressed in a tailored suit. Sherlock was there in an instant, deducing frantically, "Where's Doctor Hooper?"

"She left, sir." The man replied, no semblance of emotion on his face.

"And _why_ did she leave?"

"I was informed it had something to do with an incident that occurred yesterday, sir."

Images of Molly kissing him filled his head, but he shook them away. The man was clearly suggesting the incident that had nearly got her killed. But Sherlock didn't believe it. Molly had been surprisingly okay. Why would she leave because of- Oh.

"You're one of Mycroft's men." It wasn't a question.

"It is not in my job description to discuss certain people, sir."

"Why did my brother send you here?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, sir."

If Viola hadn't been there, Sherlock would have been very tempted to grab the man by the lapels and make him talk. But he didn't. He bristled with frustration. His voice dropped an octave, "Where is she?"

"I believe she left with a Mr John Watson, sir."

 _John? Why John?_

Confounded, Sherlock took a step back and met the man in a hot stare. "Do tell your _employer_ I will be demanding a full explanation for this. Also, do inform him that his staff can address me not as 'Sir' but as Sherlock Holmes. It's not an obnoxious prick like my brother." An evil smile pulled on his face.

The man, at last, hesitated, lifting his chin a fraction. "I shall inform him, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

As Sherlock and Viola approached John's home, they discussed her research into Migrant identification, and the detective found himself enthralled by how 'not boring' she was. Viola seemed more carefree now, whether from the adrenaline of the case, or the fact she'd been able to open up to him, he wasn't sure.

It didn't, however, help him relax. Something was going on with Molly. His spine teemed with suspicion. Sherlock felt guilty for harbouring such doubt. He trusted her. But he had a sinking feeling, one that felt like standing on an edge, ready to fall. _No- You're just trying to talk yourself out of sentimental entanglements. Molly wouldn't keep secrets from you._

Sherlock forced denial on himself. _Don't worry, she'll explain herself._

The detective opened the door and allowed his daughter to enter first.

As Viola wandered in, Sherlock took notice of his surroundings.

He recognised Mrs Hudson's shoes, placed neatly next to where Viola put hers. John's coat laid on top of Mary's red one- which John never dared to move- on the bannister. Another small jacket and scarf lay on top of that.

Molly's.

Sherlock stiffened, before removing his own coat and scarf, delicately placing them next to hers. A strange thought struck him; they looked perfectly fitting together.

"Sherlock, what are you doing lingering in the porch?"

The detective pulled out of his fervour and gazed at Mrs Hudson.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. I do hope your sister is coping well in your presence. Considering you've ate three pieces of cake today, one would presume she's enjoying your company. Or perhaps your consuming extensive amounts of food to alleviate your stress."

The elderly lady smiled, walked, and put both hands against his cheeks. He cringed at the cool contact. "Oh, Sherlock I've missed you." She leaned in, "And no, just missing my Baker Street boys, it's awfully… Mundane, without you around."

"Isn't the 10pm news keeping you company? Or the herbal soothers?"

She swatted him playfully, "I'll have none of that, thank you!"

Together, they laughed.

"Awful business yesterday those men threatening you and Molly like that," Mrs Hudson commented caringly, "She seems alright though, she's ever so strong."

A peculiar expression flashed over Sherlock's face; _if she seems alright, then why is she lying?_ "I suppose she is."

The older woman reached out and held his arm, "How's Viola?"

The detective clasped his hands behind his back, "Considering the circumstances, I must admit I'm finding her presence a positive one. She's remarkably intelligent."

Mrs Hudson's eyes sparkled with pride. "I'm so proud of you."

"What for?"

"For not running away, in fact, for embracing it. I never thought I'd say it, but I'd say you were born to be a parent."

"I'd hardly go _that_ far-"

"No, Sherlock, I mean it. You, young man, have come so far since…" She trailed off, and Sherlock knew what she was referring to.

The drugs, the instability, the recklessness. Deep down, he knew he was still that person. Given the right vice, he could easily fall back into old habits. Mary's death had proven that. It was an argument that pestered the back of his brain relentlessly.

Instead of divulging his doubts, he offered his landlady a small smile, and they went to join the others.

It was a scene of domestic bliss, Sherlock mused, but certainly not in the stereotypical sense. John sat on the settee, flicking through the television guide idly. Viola had knelt on the carpeted floor carefully, letting Rosie grab onto her hands. On the baby's opposite side, Molly sat cross-legged. She held a blue elephant above Rosie's face, shaking it, emitting a small jingle. Mrs Hudson moved into the room, plumping up one of the cushions.

Sherlock felt a wave of anxiousness hit him for the lack of social skills to navigate these situations. Yet, his neuro system protested he could be content if only he let himself relax. Molly's presence felt like a drug being dangled in front of him.

It was at this moment, that John saw him, "Hi, mate. Good case?"

 _Saw five clients at work. Left four hours ago. Creases on shirt, left in a hurry. Anxious. Hasn't eaten. Worried about something. Professional body language. Trying to look unassuming._

John was nervous.

Sherlock's head swept around to Molly. She offered him a gentle smile, laced with unsureness after the night before. But she didn't blush. In fact, the smile was forced.

 _Hair loose, let it down two hours ago. After she left work. Wasn't intending to go back then, Stamford must've cleared her absence- God, I want to kiss her- Nervous about seeing me- Focus, Sherlock!- Due to the kissing? Partially. Heart rate has increased. Tense body language. But clothing is more focused. She wishes to impress me. Whatever is on her mind, she doesn't want to get in the way of our venture. Forced confidence. But she doesn't want me to know._

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

John tried again, "I asked if your case went well."

"Oh," Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "Yes, solved. An optician poisoned her clients contact lenses after finding out they were sleeping with their husband. She also gave her husband the same pair."

"Poisoned contact lenses?" Gasped Mrs Hudson, "Dearie me, whatever next?"

"I can't take all of the credit," Sherlock cut in, "Viola identified the cause of death within three minutes of walking into the room."

All heads turned to the young woman, even Rosie seemed to slow down.

"Three minutes," John's eyebrow's shot up, "You're giving Sherlock a run for his money there!"

"Run for his money?" Viola frowned, not understanding the turn of phrase.

John started to laugh, "I bet Lestrade's face was priceless!"

"Mm, you could say that." Sherlock smirked, "Although I worry Anderson may be a little bit in love with her."

Viola rolled her eyes.

Mrs Hudson chuckled, and John threw his head back in laughter. Molly, however, was smiling at Sherlock so warmly it coloured his cheeks. She looked proud of him.

"Well, Viola isn't this nice! You and your dad off to solve crimes together." Mrs Hudson clapped her hands excitedly, "You could make a musical about this!"

"Mm, well isn't this lovely." Sherlock interrupted impatiently, his head fixed towards Molly's, "A word, please."

He saw her flinch, "Now?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

The tone of his voice suggested she didn't have a choice. Molly's stomach dropped, but she stood and followed Sherlock out of the room and up the stairs.

* * *

Molly gasped as Sherlock pulled her into John's bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"Sherlock, what's wrong, are you-"

She was silenced as Sherlock's lips captured hers. After a moment of shock, she caved in. She wound her fingers in his hair, it felt like silk on her hand. Sherlock's hands found their own paths, one held the small of her back, the other drawing lines up and down her back. He felt the white noise descending, and marvelled at it. She was addictive.

Molly didn't think she'd ever get used to this. For a moment, her worries dissipated.

She gasped as dominance started to take over Sherlock, he grasped her waist and held her to the spot.

"Molly-"

A moment later her back was against the wall, his body flush against hers. A noise escaped the back of his throat that was practically carnal. Molly found herself grasping his hips and pulling him closer without thinking. _Say it like you mean it, I love you._ A moment later, tongues met, and electricity ran rampant. She'd never tire of this.

Sherlock's palm cupped her cheek, and he edged them apart. His pupils were blown against his irises. He was the most beautiful thing Molly had ever seen.

How could she be lying to him? The thought soured her lust instantly, and Sherlock saw.

"What was that for?" She managed.

Sherlock held her in place, and spoke deeply, "Isn't this how people in romantic relationships greet each other?"

She blinked, "You're joking."

He paused, then snorted, "Of course, I'm not an idiot."

Sherlock let her go, and the cold air greeted her with ferocity.

"I wanted to," He reached out and smoothed a lock of auburn hair out of her eye line. "I was also hoping you could give me some information."

Flushed, she smiled, "What's that then?"

"Why did you leave work with John today? Why were Mycroft's agents at the morgue?"

It was like she was painted white. She stiffened immediately. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, he watched her like an experiment unravelling before him. _Fear anxiety guilt danger-_

 _FLASH_

It was like a flicker. A spark of electricity. They both saw it, and wordlessly moved towards the window.

On the street opposite, there was a man, features covered in a large hoodie, holding a camera up to the window. To them.

Molly felt like a car crash occurred inside her head, everything crumbling to a complete stop. It was them. It had to be. In plain sight.

She saw tension visibly take over Sherlock's every single feature, a storm thrashing to the surface. His eyes darkened, anger raised.

"Stay here."

The next thing she knew, he was bounding down the stairs, throwing open the door, and charging onto the street. Molly called after him, but it was no use.

They had been trying to get Sherlock's attention, and now they'd played their winning card.

* * *

 **A review box, just for you? Amazing!**

 **This chapter was a slow burn, but it's important considering where the plot is going to go. Lots of twists and turns ahead, folks!**

 **See you at the next update.**

 **E**


	11. A Good Man

**What's this? A surprise update? Oh my gosh!**

 **Hi everyone- as always, thank you so much for your love and support! It means so much!** **I'm off to Germany tomorrow for a few days, so I'm dropping a chapter to carry you over, before this plot really kicks off. Hope you enjoy a night of developing plotline haha! We're diving right back into the action...**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

"Stay here."

Sherlock moved so quickly he didn't even comprehend the motion. Danger washed through his synapses like a flame against petrol. It was instant, perilous, and volatile. He heard Molly call but scarcely comprehended a word.

Someone had been watching. Someone had captured them together.

Sherlock Holmes was rendered from a man of knowledge expelling in a thousand colours, oceans and lights into a singular feeling: Anger.

His heavy steps pounded the stairs so loudly that the light above shook.

Mrs Hudson poked her head through the living room door, shocked. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock bolted through the front door. It stayed open behind him, air billowing into the home.

Mrs Hudson glanced up at Molly appearing, who looked a combination of flushed and horrified.

"What's going on?"

"Tell John to get Mycroft." Ordered Molly, dashing down the staircase, "Now Martha, please!"

A moment later Molly had bounded through the door as well. For a fraction of a second, the matriarch of Baker Street was stumped. Her resolve resumed a moment later, and she quickly returned to the living room. John was looking at her curiously, "What was all that noise?"

Mrs Hudson flew one arm up and gestured in confusion. "Sherlock's just ran out of here like a mad man! Molly's gone after him, she said to call Mycroft. I wonder what on earth it is this time."

If Mrs Hudson had been more observant, she would have seen the motions of fear etch the edges of John Watson's face. However, it was Viola who saw. Something struck her with unease. Tightly, John pulled himself to his feet, drew the soft white curtain back, swore under his breath, and stormed out of the flat.

Viola and Mrs Hudson were left sharing an expression of bewilderment. Wordlessly, they moved to the window, watching the drama unfold on the street.

* * *

Soon as the figure with the camera registered the oncoming storm of consulting detective heading directly towards them, they ran. Sherlock bristled, a predatory armour taking over him. Before the night was out, he would catch the man.

Molly's mind was running a million miles a minute. This was bad. _So bad._ She called, but she knew he didn't hear through the whirring cogs in his brain. Even if he did hear, what would she say? A web was being spun around them, and with every passing moment, they were being trapped. She fought for the surface, but it was getting harder to breathe.

At this moment, a saving grace appeared. They emerged from the corner which Sherlock was about to run around. Quite possibly, the only thing that could momentarily distract him.

Map routes glowed around Sherlock's peripheral. Sherlock acknowledged potential routes the man would take, hiding spots, shortcuts he could make to be in front. Just as he was about to turn, he was ambushed.

"Sherlock, I need a word with you!"

Viola's mother, Maria, fixed the man with fire in her eyes.

"Not now-"

She grasped his arm, just as he went to sweep around her. Maria jutted her head up, "I'm taking Viola back home, today, you don't get a say in the-"

He threw his arm out of her cold hand, his brain spiralling into a whirlpool of chaos. The man was getting further away. The route options were growing, not diminishing. He was going to lose him. "Maria! For God's sake, _not now."_

She recoiled at the anger in his voice, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

He stopped, arms flying outwards, and shouted in exasperation.

"You think you can swan about and almost get stabbed and it not mean anything? No. I've had it. I'm not-"

"I don't have time for this!"

Molly stood stumped, a few meters away. The sound of footsteps caught her attention, she turned quickly and saw John joining her side.

"Sherlock Holmes-"

"Maria, stop blithering on! God dammit how stupid can you be!" Sherlock pivoted sharply, "John, I need you. Let's go!"

With a soldier's demeanour, John offered a sharp nod. Together, detective and army doctor took off running into the night. John didn't even know what was happening.

Molly took a moment to settle into the present as the shock, confusion, and anxiety danced with torches in her stomach. Lips parted, and breathing shallow, she finally settled her eyes upon Maria. The woman's fists were clasped shut, her face reddened with anger. Sherlock's words must've hurt. But she didn't understand. A hot tear burned the Italian woman's cheek, leaving a silvery path behind it.

"Where's Viola?" Maria's voice was low.

Anxiously, Molly suddenly felt a weight drop on her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around herself. For Sherlock, she'd have to salvage this situation. She'd have to make Maria understand that Sherlock's harsh words weren't personal. Sherlock was only just starting to understand his daughter, they had decades of friendship and bonding to make up for. The man she loved had sacrificed so much, he should be allowed that chance. He deserved a family. If Viola didn't want to walk away, she'd make sure she wasn't made to.

Molly took in a slow breath, hoping to slow her erratic heart, "S-She's inside."

Together, the two women started to head back to the Watson residence. Molly felt emotion hitting her in waves. Sherlock's words from the night before ran rampantly through her head.

 _I rationalise that losing you could destroy me._

How far would he go to protect her?

 _Please, John, protect him._

* * *

Viola groaned inwardly as she watched her mamma begin to approach the house. It was like walking into a battlefield. Today, for the first time since she'd arrived in England, she'd relaxed. She'd been able to feel more like herself. Although she didn't want to admit it, she found it _easy_ to talk to Sherlock. Most people got too emotional, their reactions too vivid and complex. His disassociation, in a sense, made her feel less judged.

He listened, observed, analysed, and made his verdicts clear.

Part of Viola wished other people would be as clinical as he was.

When she had solved the cause of death in the case, he had been _proud._ Viola realised he was too stubborn to admit to such an emotion, but it was written all over him. It was only then she understood that she _wanted_ to impress him.

Her biological father was a genius, strong-willed… Incandescent.

Mrs Hudson observed Viola inquisitively; the girl's expression was perplexed, her eyes forlorn. She saw her thumbing the bottom of her top distractedly. Mrs Hudson was caught in awe. It was as if Sherlock was doused in softness. She wondered what Viola thought about the drama outside. Sherlock running off into the night with John was an incredibly common occurrence, but Viola didn't know that. Would it put her off getting to know her father? Without realising, Mrs Hudson gently laid a palm upon the young woman's shoulder. _I sincerely hope not._

Viola blinked at the contact and pivoted her head to observe the short elderly woman. Immediately, she trusted her.

"Viola, do you know that woman coming in with Molly?"

The question seemed to cause the girl to recoil a little, her brows knitting as she grimaced. Viola closed her eyes briefly, and then reopened them, stoically looking away. "It's my mamma."

Shoes sounded in the hallway, and Mrs Hudson fell silent in shock.

Viola looked worried, for a moment, before an immediate aloofness overtook her. She stood straighter, let out a breath, and her face fell neutral.

It was like watching Sherlock switch on when approached with a client.

Molly was the one to open the door and enter first. Mrs Hudson approached her quickly, and rubbed Molly's jumper enclosed arms, "Molly dear, you're shaking. What's happened?"

The pathologist averted eye contact, withdrawing within herself. She shook her head slightly, moved away, and quickly picked up Rosie.

Mrs Hudson's eyes grew with worry, but she was stopped before she could say anything. Maria Esposito entered the room, took three steps, and met Viola in an intense stare. Tension simmered between them. Suddenly, Mrs Hudson felt protective of Viola. It wasn't her fault that her mother had kept her a secret to Sherlock. Maria looked exhausted, worn with minor premature ageing, tainted with years of drug use. _What had she been like when they met? Had Sherlock loved her once?_

Viola didn't move an inch. "What do you want?"

Maria's eyebrows raised in shock; Viola had addressed her in English. "I'm going to take you home, today, Viola. You can't stay here."

Viola's cheek clenched. "No."

Maria groaned, running a hand over her face. This was ridiculous. She spoke in Italian, "Viola, Sherlock has just-"

"No." Bit Viola in response, " _English, please_."

"Why?"

The young girl frowned, thinking of her words, and spared glanced at Mrs Hudson and Molly who were watching with wide eyes. "…They should hear."

Maria bristled, glaring at the two women, she ignored her daughter's demand and retorted in Italian, "These women are strangers Viola, don't be immature. Talk to me properly."

"You've never spoken to me properly," Italian fell helplessly from Viola's lips, hot and fiery, "You've never told me the truth about Sherlock. He's a good man-"

"That 'good man' just insulted me in the street!"

"You deserve it!" Retorted Viola, resolve failing, "You've shown him no respect over this whole situation, he is as much a victim in this as I am. In fact, the only person who isn't is _you_."

For a moment, Maria looked winded. But the air settled, and the heat grew. "Don't you dare speak to me like that." Her voice deathly low, "I did what was best for you. Sherlock was dangerous then, he's dangerous now. He was on the news last night, he nearly got stabbed in the middle of the street. Acting so reckless after discovering he has a child, it's sick, Viola!"

Viola turned to Molly. The latter, who hadn't understood their conversation gave her a sorry look, bouncing Rosie up gently to keep her occupied. Molly felt her heart-rate quicken.

"Molly, yesterday, did er, was Sherlock trying to, erm, be good?"

Molly looked between all the women in the room, lost. But, she understood the overall question Viola was asking. She offered Maria a soft stare. "Sherlock saw two men who were going to assault a woman, and he stepped in. It got a bit out of hand, yes, but he was trying to help. He's a good man."

There was a brief silence. Maria was affronted. Both women had used the term _good man_ in relation to Sherlock, in different languages. Clearly, this opinion about him was one shared. But she wasn't convinced. Maria didn't want Viola exposed to the danger she associated with Sherlock Holmes. Idly, Maria turned to look at Rosie, who despite all attempts was starting to fuss. "Is she yours?"

Molly blinked in shock, "Er- no. She's John's."

"And Sherlock's?"

Mrs Hudson's eyebrows shot up.

Knitting her brows, Molly adjusted Rosie in her arms and offered Maria a funny look. "No, erm, we lost John's wife not long ago."

Maria ignored the weight of loss in the air. She turned back around and cautiously started to speak in English. Viola desperately tried to understand her mother's words. "…When I fell pregnant and went home. I wanted him to know. My parents did too. You need to understand, it was the Holmes' who told us he couldn't know; they worried it would exasperate his drug problems excessively. But, I didn't want that. Sherlock… As strange and dangerous as he was, always showed me respect, and didn't attempt to make me anything I wasn't. I'd never call what we had a relationship, but… I loved him, in my own way. He didn't reciprocate, ever. That man is passed all semblance of sentimental love." At her words, Molly felt her stomach twist uncomfortably. Maria let out a shaky breath, "I tried to reach him by my own methods, and in the end, I saw I could only do that by contacting the people we knew mutually. So, I did."

She fell silent, and Mrs Hudson offered her a kinder expression, "What happened?"

"He'd moved on. They told me he'd started another _sort of_ relationship, but this time he was with a man." One hand subconsciously ran lines over the elbow track of her left arm, "It's stupid… But it was a different time. I got it into my head that his sexuality was something he tried to cover up and was the reason why he'd never been able to open to me, why, genuinely, I wonder if he ever cared. I was confused, young, and getting off drugs and it just warped everything. I thought if he could be more himself that way, be _happier,_ then why should I ruin it, burdening him with a child he wouldn't want."

Molly was shocked. Sherlock had explained his intimate entanglements at this time of his life to her, but now she saw the repercussions. Maria had distorted it. His experiments with physical intimacy had brought his child into the world, but now Molly saw that it kept her from him, too.

It was Mrs Hudson who spoke up, looking at Molly heavily, "Sherlock _is_ gay?"

Molly helplessly felt Sherlock's lips on hers, hands exploring, him dominating her with such passion she'd never known a man possess. An event which had occurred scarcely fifteen minutes ago. "No, Martha, he isn't."

"He isn't?" Maria cut in, suddenly alert.

"No," Molly shook her head, debating her words carefully, "He's… Mentioned this time of his life to me. It's complicated. But he isn't." She briefly wondered _what_ Sherlock would identify himself as and realised she didn't need to know. She looked back to the mother of Sherlock's child, and shrugged, "Even if he was, it wasn't a reason to keep Viola from him."

"It was never a good reason, _I know,_ but… I was so scared. And I felt I had the proof that he would never want me. Or you, Viola. It was a huge mistake. But I have to live with it."

Viola was the only member in the room who didn't appear moved by story. For her own sake, she had only understood the top and tails of the words, but she recognised her mother bargaining for sympathy. Yes, she was upset now, but was it just because she'd been outed?

"Mamma," Viola folded her arms and met her with an icy stare, "I want to stay here."

 _Ah._ She was back to the English. Maria looked defeated and sat down. "I know I can't make you-"

"You can't."

"But _why,_ Viola? Your friends are at home, your research, your life. I know you want to know Sherlock, I do- But I can't let you put yourself in danger like this."

Molly shivered and ran a shaky hand through her hair. Suddenly, she felt Viola going home may be the best option, considering the dangers that were looming overhead. It was a dilemma that made her feel like she was on a ship in a storm. Heat rushed over her. Maria didn't understand how _real_ her words were.

"Sherlock isn't dangerous," Cut in Mrs Hudson, shaking her head side to side with a laugh, "The world is dangerous, he just tries to understand it. Sherlock is… A brilliant man. I've seen him in dark places, I've seen the man you think he is." With grace, she sat down next to Maria and offered her a motherly expression, "He isn't that anymore. No, our Sherlock has finally started to understand friendship, and I hope to love. I've seen the way he looks at your daughter, and he's fascinated. Since Viola arrived, he hasn't complained once about it. He's taken it in his stride and I'm…" She struggled to find words, and her eyes started to shine, "I'm so proud of him."

The tension in the room seemed to lift. Molly, bobbing Rosie on her hip, was moved.

Mrs Hudson laid a hand gently on the Italian lady's arm, "I love that boy like a son. If anything happens to Viola, I will personally see to it that he faces the consequences. If he's so much as rude or untoward, he will face my wrath." She looked proud of herself, "Molly will as well. He trusts her more than most. And John- John will protect Sherlock's family like it's his own. If… If you can't trust Sherlock, please trust us. Viola is an adult, if she wants to go home she will."

Shakily, Maria focused her green eyes on her daughter, who had started to look hopeful.

"Please, mamma. It's not, er, for always. Just for a bit."

A long silence followed. Cars passed by elected moving orange lights behind the curtain.

Maria sighed, "What will you do here, then?"

Viola's felt heat rise to her cheeks, _she was going to stay._ "Erm…"

"She can research with me," Molly offered suddenly, "Yes- Ah, I'm a pathologist at the hospital at St Paul's, if you know it? Anyway, my research has been used up and down the country. I've attended the Royal School of Pathology, as well as Queen Mary's University. Nothing is formalised yet, of course. But I'm qualified to teach. It's a slight detour from her own studies but I'm more than willing to take her on."

She was lying. Molly was aware the hospital wouldn't let her do this. Viola wasn't a registered medical student, or even in current training overseas now her undergraduate degree was completed. She wondered if Mycroft could pull some strings. Viola started nodding enthusiastically, playing it off as if she had known all along. Clearly, she wanted her mother to buy it as much as she did.

Maria's response elicited positive responses from everyone in the room, even Rosie gurgled. "I won't support you, Viola… But if it's only temporary, yes, you can stay."

* * *

"Dammit, Mycroft! Listen to me! It was not the _bloody press!"_

John rubbed his hands over his eyes and moaned. They had ended up on a bridge at _God-knows-where_ when Sherlock finally relented that he had lost the photographer. Now, twenty minutes later, he was watching his friend pace like a maniac, chastising his brother on the phone, and waving his arms around to pronounce his frustration more.

"Mycroft! I don't _care_ that you don't have any other evidence. Where are they? No- For God's sake, you run the _country_ why the hell can't the secret service track them?! You're all idiots!"

It was a losing game, John knew. Once Sherlock started the chase, he wouldn't relent until he had answers. The army doctor understood this couldn't end well, it would either be that Sherlock uncovered everything after Mycroft alleviated the threat, or that it got to the point they couldn't hide it anymore.

Sherlock had briefly rambled on about someone taking photos of him and Molly, and John felt sick.

This…. Thing, they were facing, had been to his property. Taking photos when his daughter, and the people most important to him were oblivious inside. They must know who Viola was. John felt a headache starting to form in his forehead.

"Brother mine, I swear if you don't get your act together I'm going to personally take down the _entire_ British government and kidnap your personal tailor…. For Christ's sake, do you want me to beg for help?!"

 _God, I wish Mary was here… She'd know what to do._

With a shout, Sherlock hung up the phone, clawed his hands through his hair, and cursed repeatedly.

John sat up straighter, "No luck?"

"John, the sanctity of this very nation is at stake if the security is being run by Victorian imbeciles with no hold on technology!"

"…So, Mycroft didn't help you?"

"He said he's 'sent people' on it, but that isn't enough, John! This isn't good, someone invaded our privacy and I swear I am not letting it lie."

Silently, John berated Mycroft for being so obvious in his dismissal of Sherlock's request for assistance. Yes, Mycroft would have sent investigators, but they would not be informing Sherlock of their findings.

John pursed his lips a little, and moved over to his friend, "Mate," He started slowly, "What were you and Molly doing when you saw the photographer?"

"Is it important?"

"Yes, because I doubt you'd be as bothered if someone caught you were sharing tea and biscuits."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the absurdity of John's suggestion. He knew, from a clinical standpoint, that he should be transparent, and offer every detail to his friend as matters of evidence, but he couldn't. Sherlock felt that moment with Molly before it had happened to be... Of importance. Although he was suspicious of her activity that day, the moment he had kissed her he had felt… Human. He stole the memory for his mind palace, and it sat contently there. The thought of divulging such a thing, when they had agreed to keep it between them, filled him with dread. He needed to see her, he needed to see if she was alright.

The thought was ludicrous.

The game was on, and yet he was distracted by how hurt she must've felt. Since when he did he become so reliant on emotional connections? He berated himself, _Caring is not an advantage. You don't love her._

That's what he told himself when he didn't answer John's question.

 _You know it's not true._

That's what he told himself when they headed back to John's house.

 _Say it like you mean it._

That's what he told himself, when he wordlessly accompanied Molly back to her flat.

 _I love you._

Molly must've found it strange, to have him be rendered mute. But he feared what he would say. His dedications and thoughts would run away with him, and he would be hurtful. Every second felt like an itch on his consciousness, pressing him to work. It felt like an illness spreading through his blood vessels. He wanted to question Molly, like a criminal on the stand. Something was forming around him, the paranoia was swirling relentlessly, gripping and teasing and laughing. Yet… He couldn't. First, he wanted to know she was safe and well, questions would come later. He heard Eurus taunting him. He heard Moriarty laugh.

The consulting detective, placing a woman's wellbeing over danger. It was absurd.

Yet, as they climbed silently into the bed, with the low hum of London's traffic noise as accompaniment, he felt still.

Gently, he pulled her close. It was the first time he had held her like this... It didn't feel terrible. Sherlock hesitantly pressed a kiss upon her hair and looked back up to the ceiling. For the first time in hours, he spoke.

"Something is coming Molly, something is wrong. I can feel a new heartbeat emerging from the soil, and I fear it's coming for me. No one will give me clarity... Even you. Maybe Eurus is succeeding, maybe emotional context is going to destroy me. …But I won't let it destroy you, too."

Molly gave no reaction, and it puzzled him. His blue eyes flicked downwards, and he saw her, eyes closed, and mouth parted, hair falling down her back, breathing evening as sleep overtook her.

Sherlock didn't know whether to be relieved or not that she hadn't heard.

* * *

 **AN- Hope you've enjoyed this update! Please leave your thoughts. There are so many twists and turns to come!**

 **Next update will be within the week. :-)**

 **E**


	12. Chemistry Served With Sentiment On Top

**AN- Hello wonderful readers! Thank you all so much for your feedback.**

 **Huge chapter ahead folks!**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

 _The ceiling was painted four years ago and hasn't been maintained. What was an eggshell paint, has now started to slip into discolouration. I wonder what chemical compounds form the paint. Given its current condition, it must be lacking in zinc phosphate, perhaps unbalanced with titanium oxide._

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

 _I should consult Molly on the longevity of this paint._

He found it was the last thing on his mind.

 _Anything to distract you from the fact she's hiding something, Sherlock!_ Moriarty's voice silkily emerged through his internal monologue. _How boring of you, laying with a pretty girl when you feel there is danger ahead. I thought you were sexier than that._

Sherlock shook his head. Since when was _Moriarty_ the closest he got to the voice of reason? Molly huffed a little at the movement, before naturally burrowing into a more comfortable position.

Her skin was soft and warm on his chest, the air she exhaled softly danced on his skin.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt suffocated.

 _Hot under the collar at a woman's touch?_ Mycroft's voice hummed nonchalantly. _Basal instincts are the demise of the establishment, brother mine. What will you do if she lies to you? Will you find her beautiful then?_

Was Molly beautiful?

He'd never found her beautiful before. It was merely his biology.

As a young man, a psychologist had called him a sociopath when he explained he didn't see beauty in people. He saw information. People were too messy to be associated with beauty.

Attraction, however, was different. If one found an individual of a particularly striking nature, the attraction was natural. He'd found it as a result of experiments of intimacy. In his adult years, a few people had fascinated him, yet he'd avoided his animalistic impulses.

Molly Hooper had fallen into this category of fascination.

Being able to feel her, to hold her, to kiss her, was causing astounding chemical reactions in his brain that others hadn't. Sherlock wanted to deny the fact, but he wanted her. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically.

It was new.

Jarring.

Terrifying.

Was that what beauty was? The complete attraction of a person. Losing yourself in basal desires through no control of one's own self. Or were these the physical reactions attributed to the concept of love?

 _If beauty and love are intertwined, and my subconscious wants to fall completely… Does that mean I can love her?_

 _Molly is luminous. Intelligent. Selfless. Brave. Challenging. But is she beautiful?_

A delicate timbre, belonging to Mary, broke through his mind palace, _If she is beautiful, Sherlock, you may be in love. What will happen to you then, if she is lying?_

He definitely wasn't going to sleep that night.

* * *

As the sun rose from the horizon, tourists arrived, commuters ran for the tubes, the coffees were poured.

Molly stretched lazily, burying her head further into her duvet. A funny sound greeted her ears: cracking, _fizzing_? Molly's brown eyes opened blearily, her brow pressing downwards. It was… _cooking_. She heard her cutlery drawer open and close. _Definitely cooking._

Shifting a lock of hair behind her ear, she forced herself upright.

A familiar Belstaff coat was hung on the handle of her wardrobe.

The day before rushed over her like a wave.

Suddenly, Molly became uncomfortably warm. Rubbing her fingers over her temple and along her cheeks, she considered her next move.

Wrapping her thin pyjamas tightly around her frame, Molly left her bedroom. She made her steps obvious on the floor, as to alert Sherlock she was coming. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. She rounded the corner, and stopped dead.

 _Oh… My God._

Sherlock sat, hands steepled under his chin. Opposite to him, laid a plate with a piece of bread adorned with eggs benedict, a steaming cup of tea beside it. But that isn't what shocked her. The world's only consulting detective, who's bravado could undo an aristocrat, was sitting in nothing but his underwear.

Molly's jaw opened and closed several times. For a moment, she was completely clueless. _Sherlock bloody Holmes in practically nearly naked in my kitchen!_

 _Be strong, Molly!_

"Sherlock?"

He didn't respond. She cursed herself inwardly. The man was in his mind palace. Molly remained like a rock for a moment, before taking the seat opposite him, waiting for him to emerge into the land of the living. Molly's brown eyes fell into a trance, dancing over the man's body helplessly.

The first thing that caught her attention caused a lump to drop in her stomach.

An almost spherical scar, dinted and purple, laid on his chest. A gunshot wound. Molly remembered every detail of that day, and the events that followed. Mary Watson had shot Sherlock Holmes, to protect her identity from John. Seeing the mark it had left behind on his body was harrowing. Molly wondered if when he saw it, he imagined Mary after she herself had been shot months later. The thought made her stomach turn.

Sherlock was like a tapestry. Around the expanse of his chest, a couple more scars stood. She wondered when he had got them. Molly saw fading track marks on his arms.

He was impossibly imperfect... He was beautiful.

It was at that thought, that Sherlock's eyelids raised, and his piercing blue gaze landed on her. Molly blushed.

"I made you breakfast."

"I, er- Yes, thank you." Molly nervously took a long sip of her tea, before speaking. "Why are you-"

"None of your clothes fit me. I showered. I found one of Tom's dressing gowns, but didn't know if was a deemed alright social convention for the new romantic interest to wear a person's exes clothes."

 _Ah._ Molly coughed nervously. This whole situation was far too surreal.

Sherlock raised his jaw a little, "I don't feel it anymore."

"What?"

"The gunshot wound," He replied plainly, as if reading her mind, "I don't feel it. The whole area is lacking in nerve activity, actually."

Molly bit her lip nervously, but he gestured smoothly to her breakfast again and she started eating. _Since when did he get good at cooking?_

Idly, Sherlock leaned back into his seat and ran a palm through his curls. Molly swore her heart stopped. He raised a singular eyebrow at her. "Interesting."

"What?"

"Your arousal rate is astounding."

Molly blushed with such ferocity Sherlock thought she would combust.

"I, uh... Did you get any sleep?"

"Nope." He popped the p.

"Why not?" She paused, "What happened yesterday after you and John left?"

Annoyance flashed, "The photographer escaped."

Sherlock watched Molly like a hawk. Her eyes widened in shock, then blossomed with concern. But her shoulders dropped as if tension had dissipated. _Was she relieved?_

Suspicion prickled in his spine. "I don't know who it was. Mycroft's people are on the case. He babbled on about it being the press but I highly doubt it."

"Why?"

"Nothing has been published. One would imagine, _scandalous_ photographs of Sherlock Holmes would be published with the utmost of urgency."

Molly felt a little cold suddenly. She wanted to tell him a photo of him and Viola had landed in the morgue. She wanted to tell him the activity last night followed a strict pattern of behaviour from an enemy they didn't understand. She began to feel under scrutiny.

He _knew_ it was ludicrous.

He knew something was wrong.

She drank her tea. Suddenly, it tasted bitter.

"Aren't you worried?"

Sherlock's flat tone of voice caught her off guard.

"…Sherlock-"

"I theorised you'd be more concerned about intimate photographs of us being taken without permission."

Molly placed her cutlery down, unable to eat any more. "I trust Mycroft's team."

"Clearly."

"What?"

 _Knock knock knock-_

"Excuse me." Molly dashed towards the door. The detective grimaced.

Molly's hands stumbled with the latch, and she cursed under her breath. After a moment too long, she hoisted the door open.

"Good morning, Doctor Hooper."

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway. He was a stature of elegance. Suit freshly ironed, armed with an umbrella.

Molly, flushed, acutely aware of her pyjamas. "Er, hi- Mycroft."

He stepped smoothly past her, smelling of lemons and new books. The elder Holmes made three paces before he saw his brother, and sighed.

"Sherlock, must you really be in a state of undress when a guest arrives?"

"You're not a guest."

"Evidently," Mycroft spun his umbrella handle in his palm, "I see domestic bliss is suiting you. Did you _cook?"_

"It's merely chemistry."

"Chemistry served with sentiment on top, it seems."

Sherlock bristled, "What do you want?"

"I have come to see you regarding the man who captured images of you both last night."

"We were just discussing the matter ourselves."

There was ice in his tone. Mycroft registered it. "Brother mine, I have the man in custody. We caught him at 5:26am this morning." He procured a slim brown folder from his empty hand, "I shall go through the evidence with you."

Sherlock reached out.

" _If,"_ Mycroft cut in, "You put some clothes on."

* * *

It was an odd situation, Molly thought, to be sat in her flat surrounded by the Holmes brothers, debating and bickering.

Molly felt useless. Mycroft was lying, and she knew it. He was going to a huge length to make sure Sherlock didn't find out that they were in danger. She stood, a pawn in the Ice Man's game.

Sherlock let out a disgruntled sigh, throwing the papers down on the coffee table. "That's it then? They're a _fan._ They found John's address, arrived at the residence to evidence it, and wanted to take the photos to prove it to their friends where Sherlock Holmes was residing after the flat explosion."

"It appears that way, yes."

"That's horrendously simple," Objected the detective, "There _has_ to be something more."

Mycroft offered his brother a non-plussed shrug, "Sometimes, the answers just are that. Simple."

"No, Mycroft, they're not. That man could have approached at any time. Yet he does it when Viola is in that home, Mrs Hudson, Rosie, John, and Molly and I were-" He held back his words, "It was a _threat_."

"I am concentrating more security around the property, Sherlock. But nothing more needs doing. You're letting sentiment cloud your judgement-"

"For God's sake!"

"Sherlock," The politician cooed, "I know your life is undergoing major changes right now. But this incident is minimal, and it is contained."

"I'll contain you in a minute-"

"Sherlock!", Molly admonished, "Mycroft is trying to help."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Instead, he reached over to Mycroft with an open palm. "The photos, Mycroft."

Mycroft smirked and ran his hand into his breast pocket. "I thought I may send them to mummy and daddy, they'd make a great Christmas card."

"I have dirt on you, bro." Sherlock grinned manically, "Don't make me utilise what I know."

The politician seemed to fume silently, but he relented, silkily passing over the small collection of photographs to the younger Holmes. "I shall keep this _development_ in your relationship quiet. For now."

"For now? It's none of your business."

"Everything is my business. That's my job."

Sherlock didn't look at the photographs. Instead, he placed them on the table and seemed to change the subject. "What happened at the morgue yesterday?"

Molly visibly winced at the words, but her gaze turned to Mycroft who sat straighter. Had he come up with a story to cover it up? Deep down, she wished this was the moment he'd tell him everything.

However, more lies were spun.

"An unfortunate situation, brother." Mycroft's icy gaze possessed a calmness that worried Molly further, "Didn't Doctor Hooper inform you?"

"We keep being distracted."

Mycroft sneered, but it passed quickly, "Doctor Hooper had a body arrive at the hospital yesterday. Standard procedure. Car accident. However," He glanced at Molly, and his eyes flashed with a warning; _play along,_ "The person in question provided a striking resemblance to Mrs Mary Watson."

For a moment, Sherlock completely stilled.

A black hole opened beneath them.

Molly clamped her eyes closed. _He wouldn't use Mary, he wouldn't dare-_

Sherlock's voice was deathly low when he spoke, "I… I don't understand."

"Molly called John, then she called me. I sent my team over to investigate. One could have pertained such a body being left as a threat. We haven't identified the woman… She's a Jane Doe. Under the risk of this being more, which _is_ unlikely, they're leading an investigation into this woman's identity and her cause of death."

Sherlock glanced at Molly, who looked ashen.

"I didn't feel it appropriate to ask you to investigate, Sherlock. One witnessed you slip into old habits after the death of Mrs Watson. We didn't wish to risk it a second time, especially with Viola in the picture now."

Anger fizzled in his stomach. "What about John? And Rosie? Isn't it worth me investigating for their sakes?"

"But of course," Mycroft agreed gravely, "However, would you consider yourself stable, faced with the body of someone who looks remarkably like your late friend?"

Sherlock clasped his hands in fists. He heard Mary's final words, John's cries, the emptiness and desperate guilt. Then, he saw Viola, her smile. He felt Molly against him, warm and safe. Was he emotionally strong enough to face seeing something like Mary again? Was it worth the risk? Would it send him on another downward spiral?

Would he cope?

"…No, I don't perceive it to be in my best interests."

A small silence passed. For once, the brothers appeared to be in mutual agreement.

 _Yet it's all lies,_ Molly lamented, _Even the truth would be less painful than this._

* * *

Later, Mycroft left them both, citing the impending needs of the commonwealth.

Neither Sherlock or Molly moved as he did.

Molly found herself at a complete loss. She felt awry with just _so much._ Mycroft had pulled out the darkest card. Part of her understood. Sherlock wasn't going to relent over anything, he would never cease a line of suspicion once it shone in his eye-line. Mycroft had to use something deep enough to repel him away.

But… _Mary?_

She wanted to scream.

What would John think? Did he know? He had suffered so much. They all had.

Mycroft brought up all that pain, just to keep Sherlock away.

With a gentle whoosh, the door secured behind the politician. Molly could hardly breathe.

Warm arms engulfed her.

Molly gasped, as Sherlock's arms settled around her frame. It was fraught with a need for closeness. She felt his cheek on her hair. His hands stroked the skin they reached. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

The dam broke.

Molly sobbed, gripping the shirt he now wore. Guilt poured out of her. She expected him to be repulsed, but he stood awkwardly, letting her cry. Everything fell, like a waterfall over a cliff. Time passed, she wasn't aware how long, but the sobs turned into small shudders against his chest. Gently, Sherlock released her, and held her lower arms.

He looked at her, disarmed. His blue irises swam with everything, the grief, the confusion, the love. It broke her heart.

She kissed him, his hands immediately found the sides of her face. It was needy, honest, and beautiful.

Molly wanted to make him feel better. Somehow, she rationalised this is the closest she'd get to it.

Eventually, Sherlock eased them apart. "I will protect you, Molly. Please don't hide something like this from me again."

She stopped breathing. Her heart was falling into a million pieces.

 _If only you knew._

* * *

"How did it go, Sir?"

Mycroft peered heavily over at his driver who sat in the front seat. "Sherlock's suspicion is neutralised."

London passed beyond the blacked out windows, staring expectantly at the politician who'd betrayed his brother.

Mycroft adjusted his tie, checking the angle was exactly parallel to his neck. "Any updates on our photographer?"

"He's still keeping silent, despite our methods." The man replied flatly, "However, we've found a series of correspondence on his mobile. The numbers they have been sent to are corrupted, but not impossible to trace. His name is Oliver. We've discovered communication with people addressed by the first initial. Most of the information is being passed through a complex cypher. However, individuals are listed with an M, R, A, T-"

"I presume, all initials of the individuals spell out Moriarty."

"Indeed, Sir."

Mycroft considered the new information. They were getting closer. He could feel it. Soon, this would all be over.

 _Will Sherlock ever forgive me for keeping this a secret? After Victor, Eurus… Viola._

With a singular hand motion, Mycroft allowed the divide between the driver and his section of the vehicle raise, separating them. He replayed Sherlock's pained reactions to his words about Mary and deflated.

 _Alone protects people._

Mycroft sat unmoving for a moment and then covered his face with his hands. The moment his features were concealed, his façade broke.

* * *

Sherlock needed a distraction. An itching was prevailing around his brain mercilessly. Whether it was from lack of cases, the case of Molly Hooper, or the news of Mary Watson's doppelganger, he wasn't sure. Either way, the need for addiction was looming, teasing, beckoning.

Mrs Hudson's call had been his saviour.

Considering the events of the past days, Sherlock had been forced to acknowledge beguiling truths that faced him every day, that he ignored.

First, his feelings towards Molly. Second, the fact that Mycroft and his family kept secrets from him. Thirdly, the fact he still blamed himself for Mary's death. Time hadn't made it easier. He simply pushed it down and pushed his collar up. Bravado had kept him secure.

As he opened the door and stepped out onto Bakerstreet, he realised.

Eurus had opened the door to all this. The torrent of changes in his life were all down to her. She'd said he was incapable of love, but could it have been reverse psychology?

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

The detective shook his head. John was frowning at him. "I'm fine, why?"

"You've been stood still for five minutes… In the middle of the pavement."

Sherlock suddenly took in the appearance of Mrs Hudson, who held Rosie, Viola, and Molly.

"Merely organising information." He filtered quickly, he made a smooth motion and retrieved Rosie from Mrs Hudson's arms. "Come on."

Briskly, he led them into 221B Baker Street. Immediately, he felt lighter. He'd missed his home. As they made their way up the stairs, the telltale creaks sang into the air.

Viola observed in wonder, trying to create an image of the life her father lived in this building.

At the back were John and Molly. An unspoken conversation was shared. Mycroft had informed John of his plans, and John was furious. Molly wondered if he'd be able to keep it secret now. Quite frankly, she couldn't blame him if he couldn't.

Stepping back into his flat seemed to breathe life back into Sherlock. The floor was fixed, and new windowpanes stood in the frames. The ash was cleared. Sherlock saw damage on the fireplace, and the settee had been removed, but none of it mattered. It was home.

Four boxes lay on the floor, containing items that had been salvaged. Grinning, Sherlock rummaged and protruded the skull from its contents. Rosie babbled and reached out. "Rosamond, you see Billy the skull is safe? He can survive anything and everything." Her tiny hands aimed for the eye holes. "If you behave, I _may_ gift him to you when you're older. Your mother liked it on the mantle, I imagine you'll like it on yours, too."

Triumphantly, he placed the skull back on it's mantle.

Sherlock began his inspection of the room, not noticing the deep look that John and Molly had shared at his words.

Viola curiously approached the skull. She lifted it, slim fingers holding it up to her eye level. In English, she called over, "This is a woman."

"Exactly what I said!" Molly smiled, happy at the distraction. "Mid-fifties?"

"Fifty…" Viola leaned in, "Four!"

Sherlock admired the two women grinning at each other. Somehow, the image felt right.

John, who was tapping the new glass on the window with interest, looked over at his friend, "Mate, when do you think you can move back in?"

"I imagine three weeks, five days… Fourteen hours. It will be longer for you and Rosie, though."

John stopped momentarily. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Well, it's going to take longer to build the extension upstairs."

Mrs Hudson began to smile.

Brow knitted, John's gravity transferred between his feet. "Come again?"

"It's hardly safe to move you in with a child when the place is a building site, John." He laughed sarkily, but then scowled, "Why are you still confused?"

"You…" John struggled to find words, "You want me to move back in?"

"I thought that was obvious."

"This flat isn't a safe place for a child-"

"No, John, you don't understand!" The detective flew his palms out to issue his point, "I'm having upstairs extended. It shall be near enough the same size as this flat. A home. For you and Rosie."

A beat. "…But this is a _listed building_. How did you-"

"Mycroft."

 _Ah._ John decided that was all he needed to know.

Sherlock continued, "John, I know life without Mary has been… Hard. For all of us, but especially you. Our work distracts you, keeps you going… I'm starting to understand the importance of family, _real_ family. My involvement and pride was a key factor in Mary's death," John opened his mouth to speak, " _No,_ John. We _know_ that. But, I made a vow to protect you three, and I wish to honour it. You've… You've helped me through the worst parts of my life, let me help you navigate yours." He paused, and deciphered the expressions John was displaying, "John Watson, I want you to come home."

Stunned, John was motionless. Mrs Hudson wiped tears from her cheeks. Molly watched in awe. She hadn't known about any of this but… It made sense. It was perfect. Molly realised she had never loved Sherlock more, than at this moment.

Viola was transfixed. Sherlock was… Selfless. The man her mother had called incapable of love was not the man in front of her. Once again, she was floored by the heart of Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, she felt s _o happy_ she was staying in London. Maybe this strange family of doctors, scientists, and detective's could become hers, too.

"Mate, I… I don't know what to say." John breathed shakily, running a hand through his hair, "You're sure?"

"Yes, but don't expect me to be the perfect housemate. I do not intend to change my ways."

"No shooting the walls."

"We'll see."

John smirked, matched by Sherlock's, and it turned into laughter. A moment later, John bundled his flatmate into a tight hug. Rosie screamed happily at the activity. Exclaiming incoherent words, Mrs Hudson attached herself to them.

Viola giggled at the outrageous scene before her, and then laughed when Sherlock wriggled out with effort, exclaiming obscenities about tedious physical contact.

* * *

Like a fly on the wall, Sherlock admired the scene before him. Mrs Hudson and John were discussing living arrangements, Viola and Molly discussing archaeological remains, Rosie drooling as she slept with her head on John's collar.

His mind was spinning with Sherrinford, replaying the details of that day. The thought he had earlier hadn't relented. Was this Eurus' aim?

Sherlock saw Viola leave Molly and approach his side. Her ebony curls bounced as she moved. "I'm sorry I doubted you." Her Italian words were careful.

"You had every right to doubt me," Sherlock replied simply, "You had grown up with a very one-sided opinion of me. I don't blame you for not wanting to know me."

"Sherlock," Her blue eyes fixed on the floor, "Seeing as I'm staying in London, for a while, I wondered if we could… God, I'm rubbish at this. I wondered if I can get to know you. Properly."

"That's exactly what we've been doing this past week."

"No," She laughed, "I mean, as… My Papa."

Instantly, his head swooped round to stare at his daughter like she was a foreign element. She'd said the words with a cringe, but the intention was clear. Days ago, he'd decided he wanted to be a father. He hadn't considered she would ever match this intention. A slight red blush danced on pale cheeks. "You told me it was just genes."

"Well I must have been wrong." Viola snapped quickly; Sherlock rationalised she rarely expressed herself so acutely, it was similar to himself. "Sorry, I just-"

"Viola." This was like when John had asked him to be his best man, and his systems had stalled. Words failed. Taking on the weight of responsibility of a _child_ was different when they asked for it. Sherlock felt the pressure, the risks, the duty.

"You don't have to." Viola filled in, eyes falling a little. He realised he hadn't spoken in over a minute.

"I want to, of course."

The expression that passed over her face, of complete fulfilment, was one he would store in his mind palace forever.

* * *

Fourteen minutes later, everything shifted. Sherlock disappeared for three minutes. When he returned, he was changed, Agitated. Stressed.

" _I need you out. Everyone out! Now!"_

 _John's face contorted with confusion, "What? Sher-"_

" _John, stop putting your nose in! I need to think!"_

" _Hey, Sherlock," Molly cut in carefully, approaching him, "Are you-"_

" _Didn't you hear me?! For Christ's sake, get out. All of you. Now!"_

So, they left. Soft words murmured in confusion. Molly almost stayed. Very nearly. But she was aware no one knew of their newly formed attachment. It was important to Sherlock that it stayed a secret, for now. She understood she couldn't overstay her welcome, not yet. As Molly walked down the street, heading for the nearest tube station, she swore she heard the strains of a violin emerging from the flat.

But Eurus' bomb had destroyed Sherlock's violin… Hadn't it?

* * *

John headed home, although his mind viciously protested leaving Sherlock alone. Something was wrong. John almost stayed. Very nearly. But part of him felt it was to do with this case that had been occurring behind Sherlock's back. After Mycroft's decision to tarnish Mary's name as a distraction, he decided he didn't care. Let Sherlock find out. Let Mycroft deal with the consequences. Hell, the man had destroyed enough already.

Clambering out of the taxi with Rosie and Viola in tow, he was surprised to see Viola's mother, Maria, sat on the wall outside the house, holding a small parcel in her hands.

Viola approached nervously, speaking in Italian, "Mamma, what is it?"

Maria stood quickly, "I'm leaving for Italy this evening. I needed to see you before you go." Earnestly, she reached out and took hold of her daughter's hand. "Viola, listen to me, in this parcel I've left you a mobile phone. I've set it up and will pay for everything. I need you to stay in contact with me whilst you're here."

Sceptically, Viola raised an eyebrow at her mother, "This is unlike you."

"No," Maria's green eyes betrayed her anxiousness, "I know. Please. I just need you to be safe. Make an effort for me. For once. Viola, please."

Affronted, Viola stood rigidly.

Maria saw her hesitation "I know I've not always been good to you, Viola. There is no excuse for that." She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat that was forming, "I promise, I will be clean." Viola pulled away, her mother gripped her hand tighter, " _I promise._ Please. Everyone here is strangers to you. If anything goes wrong, I am on the end of the phone, do you hear?"

The young woman looked down at their entwined hands. Her shock grew tenfold when her mother's cold hands lifted to her daughter's cheeks. "I love you, Viola."

Viola couldn't remember the last time she had heard those words.

"…I'll be safe, mamma. I promise."

Maria smiled through watery eyes, pressed a kiss on her daughter's forehead, and turned to John, who had stood patiently at a short distance from their conversation.

"Can I have a word?" Maria asked shakily.

John paused, then nodded. Viola headed inside, baffled by what had just taken place.

John returned a few minutes later, placed Rosie in her highchair, and offered Viola a cup of tea.

Maria's words to John lingered on him like a flame near skin.

' _Matteo is out of prison. Don't tell Viola. Keep her out of the news'._

The next day, everyone's lives spectacularly went to hell.

* * *

 **Ohh dear! Hope you've all enjoyed this chapter, can't wait to hear your thoughts!**

 **So much to come!**

 **Thank you all for your support- See you at the next update!**

 **E**


	13. Curious Case of Napoleon Bonaparte

**Hello everyone! Thank you so much for your support!**

 **This chapter is absolutely pivotal, folks! Settle in, relax, you're in for a ride...**

 **Disclaimer: Anything that is canon belongs to those who carry copyright of BBC Sherlock.**

* * *

 _22:46pm._

Smoke drifted into the air, twisting and turning on its journey into the abyss. Within a few moments, the visible particles dissolved. The human eye would never perceive them again. Mycroft studied the emission of gas from the end of his cigarette diligently.

His eyes fell closed as he inhaled one long, final drag, and stubbed the offensive object into an ash tray. The room was dark, lit by a small downlight. The rich furniture cast long shadows, looming, waiting, watching. The ticking clock giggled from its suspended spot.

Mycroft Holmes lay his elbows against the deep Parnian desk and let out a stilted breath that had begged for relief all afternoon. Deft fingertips found his temples and massaged the area. It wasn't enough to quell the headache that plagued him.

Beneath him sat a letter. Three words. A familiar hand.

 _How was it possible that brushes of ink against refined tree bark could spur such a commotion in the mind?_

Mycroft remained still for a long while. His logic demanded an epiphany his neurosystem wouldn't provide.

The sound of a knock forcefully brought him out of his stupor. Instinctively, his large palms covered the letter in front of him.

"Sir?"

"Anthea."

The brunette offered him a half smile, as the ice man corrected his posture into one of authority. Smoothly, she stepped two steps into the room. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and she stopped. "Sir, there's been an incident."

His tone was as transparent as his features, "Where?"

"The National Gallery."

* * *

 _23:27pm._

 **Are you okay?**

 **Molly**

Pressing send, Molly sighed. Deep down, she knew she wasn't going to get a response from Sherlock anytime soon. Molly looked hopelessly at her pasta dish. Without thinking, she found herself wrapping it up and placing it in her fridge, hoping Sherlock would finish it when he came back.

 _If he came back._

 _Come on Molly, he's just at Baker Street. Don't be dramatic!_

All evening, the Pathologist had considered going to him. His turn in the flat had been unnerving. But should it have been? Going from polite to irrational _was_ typical Sherlock behaviour.

So why was she worrying over his safety? Just because they'd begun exploring a new aspect of their relationship didn't make him a changed man. Mycroft's silence spoke volumes; if Sherlock was in immediate danger, he would have been in touch.

Molly reached behind her and let her hair down. A shower and sleep would do her some good. As she paced from the kitchen to the bathroom, she ignored the words running on the television screen behind her.

'… _Bonaparte stolen from the National…'_

* * *

 _The Next Day, 7:37am._

Rosie squirmed, kicking and wailing as John hoisted her into a baby carrier. "Come on Rosie, you know I hate this as much as you do." After much trepidation, the satisfying 'clicks' met John's ears. He kissed his daughter's forehead as she objected her new position.

 _God, I need coffee._

After hastily checking his list of items he needed, he started making his way down the hall, child protesting the whole way. John struggled to reach over to a door on his right, his knuckle made two quick raps on the door. "Viola?"

He heard the shuffling of feet, before the door pulled open.

Viola looked down sleepily at the army doctor who looked like he would burst. Through messy dark curls, she leaned against the doorframe, quirking a bemused eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

Rosie wailed.

"Yes, ah-" A nervous laugh, "I have work. I'm just dropping Rosie off at my neighbours. I should be off by one. Will you be okay on your own?"

The corner of her mouth lifted as she translated the outline of his words. "Yes… I'm, erm, going with Molly this morning." She thought, "To the hospital? For working."

John ignored her incorrect tense and offered her a light expression. "Great. Spare key is on the rack, and, call me if you need me, okay?"

Viola nodded.

"Right, come on angel," John addressed Rosie, before bustling down the stairs, and through the door.

Viola ran a hand through her hair with a small laugh, but her fingers got caught in a knot, and she groaned. Quietly, she turned on her heel and went back into the guest bedroom. She reached down between the side of the mattress, pulled out a piece of paper, and sat on the bed.

With incredulous and assiduous eyes, she studied it carefully.

' _ **VIOLA. Ti sono mancata?'**_

The letter which had been left days ago now bore worn edges. It was an enigma. It still didn't make any sense.

For days, she'd sat on the decision. _Tell Sherlock or not tell Sherlock?_

Matteo was in prison. The fact this had landed on John Watson's doorstep was… Incredible. Awful. Terrifying.

Every attempt to relax had been met by self-doubt and paranoia. But it was different now, Viola rationalised. Nothing had happened since. The world had been strangely quiet.

 _Maybe it was the last joke from my psychotic auntie, the one who forced me into Sherlock's existence. Maybe it isn't real._

Viola wanted answers. The shock had passed, but the questions remained. The solution was clear. When she saw Sherlock, she would tell him. Who would better at solving his mystery than the great Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

 _7:52am._

"Sherlock stop being a cock and answer your phone. It's about Viola. Just- please call, alright? Bye."

John let out a huffed sigh, dashing down the steps of the tube station. After a few minutes, the packed vehicle pulled in, squeaking against the old metal. John thanked his stars when he saw a singular free seat emerge from the camouflage of commuters. The grimy seat felt like a breath of fresh air.

Helplessly, John thought of his best friend. Sherlock had been out of contact ever since he'd yelled at everyone to leave his flat. Maria had told him that some guy- _Matt? Matteo? Macheo?-_ Was out of prison. She instructed him to tell Sherlock straight away. John didn't understand Maria's words, but he knew Sherlock would. With a soldier's approach to duty, he needed his friend to know, and fast. However, the detective seemed to have disappeared.

His behaviour the day before had been… Strange.

But Mycroft hadn't been in touch, so surely that meant whatever was going on didn't impede on his brother's safety? John wanted to feel happy about that, but part of him hated it. Mycroft had used Mary against them all, and Sherlock deserved to know. Silently but resolutely, John made a vow:

 _If this isn't sorted in the next two days, I'm telling him. Sod the consequences._

Mary would have wanted him to know.

Feeling somewhat affirmed in his decision, John sat back and waited as London passed by overhead. His attention was caught on the Daily Mail that someone held open opposite.

' _NAPOLEGONE! FAMOUS VERNET PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEAN BONAPARTE DISAPPEARS FROM THE NATIONAL GALLERY.'_

John wondered why sounded familiar.

* * *

 _8:09am._

It was like art, mused Sherlock Holmes, to stand on the very point between reality and oblivion. The epicentre, where the axis could turn, and shift the foundations of knowledge beneath it.

He willed his heart to slow down, yet it drummed against his ribs.

The consulting detective closed his eyes, revelling in the silence of his heartbeat, just for a moment. When the irises reopened, a determination had settled within their core.

He held onto the violin, his only weapon, steadfast and loyal.

The divide opened.

 _Into battle._

To Sherrinford.

To Eurus.

To answers.

* * *

 **Sixteen Hours Earlier**

 _Viola wishes to be my daughter._

 _Error. Focus, Sherlock!_

He had to get out. He had to breathe.

"Viola, if you would just-" With a swift motion, the detective rounded around his daughter, down the corridor, into his bedroom, and shut the door.

Sherlock's back pushed against the doorframe.

 _Breathe._

The detective slowly slid down, until he contacted the ground. His hands laid over his knees.

 _You're a dad, Sherlock._ Moriarty cooed, _is it only hitting you now? Blimey you are a bore._

Knitting his brow, Sherlock acknowledged his tangled thoughts. Since Sherrinford, everything had shifted. He had accepted it, with as much control as any man probably could. Viola was extraordinary. Her personality spoke bounds, and he knew he didn't want her to go. Her presence was beneficial to his existence.

But only in that moment, when she had referred to him as 'Papa', had he _felt_ it. A basal _emotion_. A protectiveness like no other. Viola was his daughter. S _he really was._

Something in his synapses begged for Molly, as shockingly had often happened the past few days. She was mere meters away, yet he didn't move. This moment… Was private. Sherlock Holmes was a father. He had never wanted children. Yet, here it was. It was… Extraordinary.

Then he saw it.

In the middle of the room, there lay a black violin case.

It wasn't his.

Against sharp features, his cheek clenched. Blue irises deepened. The swell of mystery vibrated through his body.

 _Old. Very old. Leather backed with wood. The handles are new. Imported from Italy. Indentations suggest it's been left by a man, of 6'1 height, medium build. The corners are scuffed, hit the door when it came in. Deliverer doesn't like their employer._

Subconsciously holding a breath, the consulting detective opened the case. The wood before him shone, casting a warm glow in icy eyes. A ray of light from the window cast a glow, illuminating the maker's mark.

His gentle gasp whispered across the room.

' _Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis ~ Facibet Anno 1697'._

This was one of the most famous violins in the world. _The Molitor Stradivarius._ For centuries, it had been passed down across musicians, rulers, and Parisian Socialites. Sherlock knew it. Napoleon Bonaparte had once owned it.

A slim hand reached out, plucking every string as it went. It was perfectly in tune. Whoever had left it, recently, meant it to be played.

Gently, Sherlock lifted the item, as if it would break at its touch. The history fell on his form like gravity. It was hard to shift the geniuses gaze, and yet it drifted to the small note that been laid underneath it.

' _Brother'_ was all it said.

But it wasn't Mycroft's hand. Suddenly, the ocean cleared. A lighthouse cast direction over the horizon.

This was Eurus.

This was a summons.

* * *

 _10:36am._

Viola watched in awe as Molly made her first incision into the corpse.

" _Tieni il bisturi come un'artista."_ The young woman breathed, grasping a notebook to her chest.

Molly smirked, "I hope that was a compliment."

"Er, yes. Sorry."

Molly let out a giggle, and Viola matched it. For the next few minutes, Viola let Molly work in silence. She attached the terms she knew about the scientific processes to what she was seeing. She had questions, but she lacked them in English. Apparently, basic English needed for conversational purposes didn't include the biology of post-mortems.

"I didn't think I'd be allowed to let you come here," Molly started, extracting the liver carefully, "But Mycroft somehow cleared it with my boss."

Molly flicked her head towards a pair of weighing scales, and Viola picked dutifully went to carry it over. "My…" _What was the word again? "_ Uncle? The umbrella man?"

"Mm." Molly put the organ on the scale, and Viola wrote down the figures. "He's a very powerful man. He cares about Sherlock a lot more than he lets on."

 _Too much more,_ Molly thought gravely.

Viola caught a sombre expression capture the short woman's face. "…Are you okay?"

Molly blinked, shocked. _She's ridiculously perceptive._ "Yes, it's just I don't know where Sherlock is, that's all."

She cursed herself at the part lie.

The curly haired girl thought for a moment, "Has he not, er, been with you in the night?"

For once, Molly was relieved she had a corpse to look on. "…No, not last night."

Viola pressed the top of her pen to her chin and fixed the pathologist with an inquisitive stare. "Are you in love?"

A cough exploded from Molly. "Sorry?"

"I er," Viola's blue eyes danced curiously, "I thought you were. Sherlock is too," She struggled to find the word, " _Difensiva?_ Defence, ah… With you. I can see it."

 _Well,_ Molly resolved silently, _it's not the first time I've been asked blunt questions over my love life by a Holmes over a corpse._ "Our relationship is… Complicated."

"But you're a relationship?"

Molly shuffled awkwardly. A moment of silence passed. Where her father's exterior was harder to read, Molly's spoke a thousand words. The silence stood as testament.

A smirk pulled on her lips, that reached her blue eyes, "I won't tell anybody."

Molly stared in shock and then forced her mouth closed. She offered the slightest nod, and a mute agreement passed between them.

* * *

 _08:10am. Sherrinford._

 _It's strange how certain individuals can provoke such emotional reactions._

Viola provoked protection. John provoked companionship. Mrs Hudson provoked familial instinct. Mary provoked grief. Mycroft provoked competition. Molly provoked an entire ocean.

Eurus provoked fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

Sherlock swallowed down the incessant gnawing of panic, forcing his heart to slow down. Eurus wished for music. She was his teacher. He would perform.

Quietly, he crouched and removed the instrument from its casing. The antique felt unfamiliar in his grasp. Eurus didn't move. For some reason, a pressure of failure gripped him as he stood poised. Truthfully, Sherlock didn't understand why he was here. But instinct had protested, somewhere, that answers laid with his sister.

Answers to what, he didn't know.

Grateful there was no tremor in his hands, the detective began to play. Melancholy notes filled the air, seemingly fitting for a prison. Fitting for freedom that would never be granted.

Eurus didn't move.

But then eventually, she did. With such grace, she was practically ethereal.

The fear that spiked in the nervous system was strong he stopped. Eurus's jaw parted, just a fraction, her interest cutting through their divide like acid. She wanted him to play.

Silently acknowledging her decision, he carried on.

Eventually, they played together. Detective and psychopath. Brother and sister. Images span in his peripheral, of his family, of Molly. Times past and present. It was a seemingly beautiful communication. Sherlock wondered what his sister perceived.

When the music finally cascaded into a finish, he waited.

Releasing the chin rest from his jaw, but brandishing it close, he spoke flatly. "I have responded to your summons, what is it you require?"

No reaction.

"…This is an extremely antiquated instrument, to get hold of such an item one must have spent week procuring it. My conclusion is that this was planned before I arrived at Sherrinford. You wished your test subject to return after the initial experiment. Is this a _progress_ report?"

Nothing.

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth felt thick. "I presume there is a purpose for this invitation."

Eurus struck three notes on her violin. A cadence. A perfect progression.

 _Interesting._

"Eurus… My existence has altered substantially since our encounter. How much of this have your orchestrated?"

Two notes, a perfect octave. The whole scale. …It meant everything.

Her blue eyes seemed to dance as she studied Sherlock, who suddenly felt like a puppet. Anger fizzled in the pit of his gut. His independent realisations were not of his own volition.

"Has your game ceased? Is this the end of my requirement to you?"

Eurus braced her instrument, and the imperfect sequence of three notes rang.

 _A suggestion of a continuation._

"I refuse to be a pawn in your games."

She placated him with a single look. _Then why are you here?_ Eurus' face commanded, knowing, horrifying.

Sherlock's cheek clenched. He considered emotional context and her theory that it would destroy him. It had done no such thing. It had brought Molly to his heart. Viola to his home-

Eurus played, a bewitching orb cast her brother's way constantly. A small theme generated from the instrument, light and based with longing, attached with the phrasing of a classic Italian opera. Eurus played the song of Viola Seraphina Esposito. Sherlock was transfixed. The melody danced, exploring the curious fascinations of the world, but then it transformed, jarring, romantic, ugly… Dangerous.

For a moment, the detective forgot how to breathe. When his baritone penetrated the space, it shook, "Viola's in danger."

Four notes echoed a reply, a major ascending pattern. Sherlock concluded this was a yes.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Eurus's struck the instrument again. This time, a nursery rhyme.

Sherlock was struck with horror as suddenly he saw them as children, singing this. Short hair and plaits. It was fun. …She was telling him, for _fun_.

He bristled, "Viola has a whole family to protect her. Mycroft, as repugnant as he may be, would start wars to protect her. John would kill. Molly would change her identity. There would be no secrets, because that's what families _do,_ Eurus."

A silence followed. A long, doubtful silence.

The psychopath raised her bow towards the heavens and struck down. The sound cut-throat. Loud. Angry. A diminished fourth.

 _The devil's interval._

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mind suddenly awash with deductions. Words swam in his peripheral. Screaming the obvious.

"…They're lying to me."

The sound of confirmation emitted in response.

Anger burnt his throat like acid. His palms gripped the violin so tight the strings left indentations across his palm

"Why," He snarled, "Should I trust you?"

Eurus lowered the violin and tilted her head. Then, she did the most terrifying thing Sherlock had seen. She laughed. A forced, antagonising sound.

A week ago, Sherlock had seen his sister reduced to tears, and he assured he would help her land. He promised her support. Now, he questioned everything. Was it all part of a grand scheme? Eurus wasn't changed. Thunder stormed in her icy gaze.

Eurus could manipulate people. She was turning him away from the people who mattered most. Because she enjoyed seeing him suffer.

Sherlock's jaw locked in anger for fear he would explode with rage.

"Our communication has come to an end."

Sherlock dropped to his knees, to put the violin away. _Calm down._

 _BANG_

Sherlock jolted. Eurus seethed at him, hands against the glass. Her hot breath expelling air onto it. Her violin lay, thrown against the floor. Madness wore her proudly.

It was like a caged lion, eyeing the prey roaming free.

Case sealed, Sherlock took his chances. Stealthily, he marched towards her. Achingly close. The partition a shield. With venomous darkness, he spoke. "Farewell… _Sister mine_."

He turned on his heel. Eurus pounded on the glass. His heart pounded in his ears.

"Moriarty said you'd do this-"

Sherlock froze. The exit within arms grasp.

"-Choosing sentiment over logic clouds your judgement. You know it's true… They've lied. They're going to destroy you… _Brother mine."_

Those were the last words he'd ever hear his sister speak.

* * *

 _22:32pm_

For the sixth time, Mycroft's number rang to end and cut off. The politician didn't allow for voicemails. Anxiousness pricked Molly's stomach, in all her years dealing with Mycroft Holmes, he was never out of contact. Not for long.

It had been over twenty-four hours since she'd seen Sherlock or heard from Mycroft.

John hadn't heard anything either.

Molly's flat felt colder than usual, and she hastily gripped a powder pink throw closer to her chest. _Don't be anxious, he'll be fine. Mycroft is probably on the last stages of fixing everything. This will all be over. Your life will carry on._

Tiredly, she reached out for the remote and switched her television on. BBC'S _News at Ten_ met her attention.

"...22:12pm last night a famous Vernet portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte was stolen from London's National Gallery. The portrait, worth millions has vanished without a singular piece of evidence. Security of the building was terminated ten minutes before the burglary and resumed five minutes afterwards. The Metropolitan Police are yet to make a statement regarding-"

 _Knock knock –_

Molly Hooper was up in an instant. _Please be Sherlock, please be okay-_

She fumbled with the locks, and albeit too dramatically, pulled the door open. Her whole body sagged with relief.

The consulting detective stood before her. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

Molly took a moment to catch her breath, taking in his haggard appearance, a violin case in his hand. "Sherlock- Where have you, I mean- What's happened?"

Suddenly, he stepped past her, removing his coat and scarf as he did. He abandoned the violin case quickly.

S _omething's wrong. Does he know?_

Shakily relocking the door, she spoke, afraid of deductions. There was something in his expression that terrified her. It was so weighted, it felt like a broken heart. "Where have you been?"

"I don't wish to speak."

Molly stared at him then. His words fell unnaturally slowly, pitches uneven. _God, it's like the night before he fell from St Bart's._ …Something had scared him. Forcing resolve upon herself, she moved. She stepped close to him, and he towered over her small frame. "It's okay," She managed, holding her breath as she took one of his hands, it was ice cold, "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock arched his brow moved with perplexion.

Eurus had taken humanity from him, made his decisions not his own, and insinuated his loved ones would hurt him. Sherlock wanted- No, he _needed_ the white noise.

He wanted to feel… Human.

Sherlock stood still, just for a moment, and Molly understood.

Together, they moved, and lips made the gentlest of caresses.

Sherlock's eyes fell closed. The tension melted away in a single touch. An unsteady emotion lulled in his chest. But it wasn't uncomfortable. Molly reached her small arms around him. _He's here. He's safe. Everything is okay._

 _She's hiding something, Sherlock,_ Eurus hummed in his mind palace, _Her and John and Mycroft, and you're too stupid to see it._

Sherlock suddenly gripped Molly's waist, tight. She jolted and pulled away. Molly saw his eyes clamped shut. It was if he was battling an inner demon she didn't understand-

A deep noise emitted from the back of his throat, and suddenly his lips found hers again. Demanding. Passionate. Confusion dissolved. Molly' hands found his hair, his the small of her back, pressing her closer. Logic fell into oblivion. Before they even had a chance to process it, they were in Molly's bedroom, on the bed, hands wandering, grasping, feeling.

Molly was warm. She felt like home. Her kisses signposts to hormones in his body that were forcefully waking. Sherlock wanted her body. Her heart. Her loyalty.

Small hands against his bare chest alerted him to the fact his shirt was elsewhere. _When had that happened?_ Molly left his lips and started kissing along his jaw, his neck, years of unrequited love spilling over the reins. Sherlock swore his heart skipped a beat, as her lips ghosted the very top of his gunshot wound. He stilled momentarily. A foreign feeling gripped him tightly. He watched in awe as Molly's head raised and offered him a quirky smile.

Cheeks flushed, lips full, eyes dilated. A woman in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 _Say it like you mean it._

Molly accepted his shortfalls, his history, his struggles. She understood the complexity of his mind.

 _Go on, say it._

Molly considered him human. She'd saved his life, in so many ways, more than he'd ever comprehended.

With her word, he would have made her his, right there and then.

… _She's beautiful._

Molly bit her lip, questioning, as he stared at her with intensity. Chest rising and falling, she leant forward, kissed his nose, the corner of his mouth, and waited.

 _If she is beautiful, Sherlock, you may be in love._

Molly brushed a loose curl away from his brow and rested a hand on his chest. He'd gone still. "Sherlock are you alright?"

The consulting detective shook his head before he could stop himself. Molly quickly rolled off him, laying at his side. Her expression open, wishing only to understand.

But she couldn't perceive the cacophony of colours exploding through his head. She couldn't perceive the music that played. She couldn't see, that when he looked at her, he only saw one thing. Beauty.

 _…Oh my God, I love her._

"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, we need you to come with us." An American twang called from her living room.

"Wait what-" Molly jolted like ice had been dropped down her back, her expression alarmed. "Sherlock what the hell is-"

" _Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper-"_

"Stay here." Sherlock instructed, hand on her leg. He knew the voice. Topless, he went around the door.

Molly's stomach churned with fear. _Someone has just entered my flat. Someone has broken in. What if it's the same person that left the note on the body. What if-_

Sherlock reappeared and studied her for a moment. "Molly, it's Mycroft's team. We've been asked to go with them."

"Why?" The pathologist suddenly felt more afraid, and Sherlock saw.

"They won't say."

Molly offered a numb nod, trying to ignore the lump that was forming in her throat. Quickly, they got ready and left. As they travelled through London, Sherlock's head swam relentlessly with the sheer knowledge that he was in love. Eurus had been wrong. S _o wrong._

Yet, he worried. _You trust her… You love her,_ he told himself, repetitively. But something was amiss. _She is too afraid._

Meanwhile, Molly felt like a lamb heading to the slaughter. Somehow, she knew Sherlock was about to find out everything.

* * *

 _23:02pm._

Mycroft's base of operation was an underground bunker. A cave for the Ice Man. Sherlock's first intuition concluded that Mycroft had a case for him, this wasn't the first time a _collection_ by his people had occurred. The last time he had been here, he had confronted his parents about Viola's existence. This, he predicted, would be a much more routine visit.

Or, perhaps, Mycroft had found out about his little trip to Sherrinford. In which case the communication was certainly going to be of a more volatile nature.

Molly thumbed the end of her jumper nervously, eyes fixed on the floor ahead.

It was… _busier,_ than usual. Sherlock's hard eyes deduced members of Mycroft's teams mulling around. They were worried, frustrated, angry? It appeared most of Mycroft's security detail were spread out across the building.

A diminished fourth, that had echoed from Eurus' violin, played in the back of his mind.

Eventually, they reached the bunker. Agent Jamal opened the heavy door and gestured them inside the steel encasement.

Viola and John, who was holding Rosie, sat opposite Mycroft's desk.

Through tired eyes, John looked over at his friend, who for once looked shocked. "Sherlock, any idea why we're here?"

Deductions tried to form, but a coherent resolution was reached. "No." _Why are they here?_

Viola offered him a nervous smile. Sherlock tried to force one onto his features, but it didn't reach, for in his peripheral, he saw it.

John and Molly, sharing a look of pure fear.

His hands clasped into fists.

The detective swept on his heel, and glared at a sophisticated redhead who stood near the door, "Where is my brother?" He bit, "I sincerely hope there is a good explanation for this."

The woman stared at him, hard, offering no clarification.

Panic started to crawl up his spine. _Something's wrong._

A familiar gait was heard approaching the door, flitting in and out between others. For a moment, Sherlock was relieved. "Ah," He announced starkly, "Here he comes."

The door opened.

And Sherlock was floored. For it wasn't his brother... It was his father.

Sigur Horace Holmes, accompanied by Violet Holmes were brought in, accompanied by Lady Smallwood.

Sherlock physically took a step back; his hand flew to his temples. _Something's wrong something's wrong-_

"Sherlock," Horace addressed his son stiffly, "Why has your Mycroft brought us here?"

He didn't have an answer.

Viola stared at the two-elder people like a deer in the headlights. Suddenly, she turned away. _"Santo cazzo Madre di Cristo",_ she hissed under her breath. Heat blossomed over her. Her hands fell into her hair. Those were her _grandparents._

John caught her stress and laid a hand on her shoulder. _Christ,_ he thought, _this is the least of our worries._

Violet frowned at her son, "Sherlock we know what this is about-"

"You do?"

"Haven't you seen the news?" Violet furthered, "Our Vernet's portrait of Napoleon was stolen last night."

"What?"

"From the National Gallery. Taken, without a trace. If you'd only answer your _phone-"_

"No!" Sherlock snapped, the room quietened, Molly stared worriedly, "Mycroft wouldn't bring us all here over a _family_ _painting._ Christ, how idiotic can you be!"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that's quite enough!" Ordered Horace.

Now, the room fell silent. Sherlock seethed. _Wrong wrong wrong-_

A tall Asian man- the one who had been at St Bart's- entered, gracing a tailored suit. As he made his way through this strange family set up, all eyes followed.

It was in that moment, that Violet saw her granddaughter for the first time, and the colour drained from her face.

The agent sat down in Mycroft's chair.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin.

 _Something is wrong._

"Good evening, everyone. I'm Specialist Agent Chen. We have brought you here tonight under Mycroft Holmes' wishes, as stated under Code Redbeard-"

Sherlock and John winced.

"Each of you are the people Mycroft Holmes has designated on paper as his official family."

Molly's face contorted in confusion. She remembered the night Viola had came into their lives, and Mycroft had said she wasn't family. Sherlock had corrected her. John sat stiffly, bouncing Rosie on his knee, considering a similar conundrum.

"We have followed our employers detailing of this operation very carefully. However, we have surpassed the gestation period, and our findings have been unsuccessful. I will-"

"Get to the point, boy." Violet bit.

The Agent flinched, but continued, "At 15:21 hours today, Mycroft Holmes turned off the surveillance system that protects himself. He stationed his guards at mixed hours. He didn't have anyone watching him, or any system to track him." The tension thickened drastically, "It appears he left his property, walked for half a mile, took a taxi… And now his whereabouts are unknown."

Silence.

Agent Chen swallowed thickly, "However, forty minutes ago we received intelligence. A posting on the dark web. It appears Mycroft Holmes is being held hostage, we can only assume by the splinter group that is trying to replicate the movements of Jim Moriarty."

Around Sherlock Holmes, the walls caved in. He could hear Eurus' laugh, rattling his bones.

* * *

 **A review box? For you? Wow!**

 **Everything is going to start coming together now... See you at the next update! Thanks again!**


	14. The Little Corporal

**Hello everyone!**

 **So sorry for the belated update, I've lots of projects going on and been rushed off my feet! Hope this longer update makes up for it!** **Thanks for all your support, it's amazing!**

 **A reminder - Mycroft has gone missing, supposedly by the group that's imitating the actions of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock is just about to see how everyone has been lying to him. Including Molly, who he has just realised he loves. Yikes.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

 **1986**

"Come on, Mycroft!" A bundle of black curls sprinted down a corridor with tall walls, gracing paintings from the Nineteenth Century.

Mycroft pushed his hands behind his back to make him seem taller. "Running there won't get you there any quicker."

"Very true," The boy's mother chuckled, "Although I don't think that's going to stop him."

"If we own the paintings," Mused Mycroft gainly, "Why do we keep them here?"

"It's what your predecessor would have wanted."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and spared a glance down at his little sister who appeared as unimpressed as he felt. "How do you know what Emile Vernet wanted?" His chin jutted up, "He's dead."

Violet shrugged, "Alright then, it's what your father wants. But it's good that people can enjoy them."

"They're boring." Emerged the timbre of a child with the diction of an adult. Eurus pouted, "Blobs on canvas."

 _I knew this would be a bad idea,_ lamented Violet. Her children were the hardest to impress. But it was important they understood their family history. She smiled as she saw Sherlock with his cardigan only half buttoned, mouth forming into an 'O', and gallivanting around the corner.

"Great, here we are! Vernet's exhibit."

They approached a relatively large space. Adjusting her shoulder bag, Violet watched as her children made their ways around the room.

Sherlock dashed with avid curiosity, analysing the colours and layers. He came to a stop at the artist's self-portrait, showing Vernet wielding a large cigar. The boy glanced through his curls, "He wasn't sleeping much when he painted this mummy," Sherlock stated proudly, "Also he was fatter than this."

"And why do you think that is?"

"Messy brush strokes," He pointed, "And his moustache is too neat."

"Very observant of you, Sherlock." Violet chuckled, "Maybe we should get you a magnifying glass."

The boy beamed.

A few meters away, Mycroft stood, enraptured. Napoleon Bonaparte stared down at the preteen, bearing a bold uniform and a determined expression. Mycroft, who wore his school uniform even out of term time, understood how it felt better to be armed with clothes. Absently, he straightened his burgundy blazer. Mycroft felt he was looking at an ally.

Mycroft had learned about Napoleon in History. The man had practically conquered Europe only to have his position revoked- twice. Although not a favoured figure, the man had incredible skills in strategy and defence. He'd sat at the helm of an empire. Mycroft was thirteen years old, scarcely on the edge of puberty, but he understood.

It felt like a calling.

Mycroft heard a familiar gait approach, "That man thinks he's cooler than he is." A pause, "Like you."

"Very funny, Sherlock."

The little boy sniggered. Mycroft groaned inwardly at what drama his six-year-old brother was about to expel on him. "What is it?"

"Eurus… She's stupid."

"She's cleverer than you-"

"No she isn't!" Sherlock folded his arms petulantly.

Mycroft smirked, "Why is she stupid?"

"She thinks the fighting painting is funny. She s _aid_ they were dancing! But they're not dancing, they're sad 'cause they're dying. She's so silly."

Mycroft was no longer smirking. He turned and watched her sister. Eurus was stood, tiny, with a huge painting of battle above her. She was grinning.

* * *

 **Present Day**

 _Agent Chen swallowed thickly, "However, forty minutes ago we received intelligence A posting on the dark web. It appears Mycroft Holmes is being held hostage, we can only assume by the splinter group that is trying to replicate the movements of Jim Moriarty."_

A dense silence gripped the Ice Man's cave, chaining those who stood in its space to the ground. Secrets, shock, concern, and anger filtered the air, battling one another for a unique dominance that could personify Mycroft Holmes' disappearance.

Mycroft Holmes was missing.

The special agents were stumped.

"…Shit." A hiss escaped from John.

Molly's hand shot out to grip his.

There was no going back now. Mycroft had been wrong. Horribly wrong. Both adults stared ahead. Unable to turn their eyes to the man they loved, whom they had failed. Who now would know they failed.

If they had turned, they would have seen a statue. Yet, the storm in his brain had turned into an earthquake. The mind palace was breaking apart.

Agent Chen clasped his hands together, "I understand this may be a shock-"

"A shock." Violet Holmes looked up, pale eyes burning with a ferocity that could overturn governments. "You're telling me, my _son_ is gone-" Her voice shook erratically, "Because your security team had you _daily hours moved?"_ A finger jutted out to the agent, "Because he _turned his security off?_ You're meant to be some of the most proficient protection agents employed in this country!"

"Mrs Holmes," Interjected Agent Chen, "If you would just-"

A grave expression broke out across her worn features, "Moriarty killed Sherlock once... I will not let his ghosts kill Mycroft too."

Viola felt like a fish out of water. A dark feeling gripped her insides. Through their complicated English words, she'd gaged her Uncle Mycroft had vanished. Viola scarcely knew the man. But clearly, he was important. As Viola watched her father motionless, his friends looking like they would burst with guilt, and her grandparents on the verge of breaking down, she wondered what on earth she had got herself into. Shifting a little, she felt the mobile her mother had given her press against her leg.

Suddenly, she wondered if she had made the right choice staying in England.

Hands shaking, Horace Holmes spoke deeply, "We need to call out a national enquiry. Not just for us, he is of _national importance_ -"

"We can't," Chen cut in swiftly, "Mycroft's _importance_ is precisely why. His absence will draw the attention of terrorist cells who don't act _because_ of his place in government. Our security threats will grow tenfold." The agent saw the horrified faces in the room, "MI7 and MI6 are searching, as is the CIA and other security organisations internationally. The PM and the Crown are deploying teams as well. He will be found."

Violet laid her palms against the dark table, "You let him walk out of here, despite people playing _Moriarty_ on our doorstep. You're abhorrent excuses for human beings."

Agent Chen didn't react to the matriarch Holmes words and instead turned his pointed features to his employers' younger brother. "Sherlock Holmes, sir. We are under the impression you have been kept unaware of this splinter group's activity."

The consulting detective stared, expression like glass. Images twisted and turned in the foray of his synapses; Mycroft sitting by his side on the way to his first day of boarding school, Mycroft falling in a brook when trying to stick to Sherlock's bullies, an event which triggered obsessive-compulsive disorder tendencies, his expression when Sherlock emerged after his first overdose, the day after he'd jumped from St Bart's-

Horace Holmes moved over to this son, laying a large hand on his arm.

Sherlock flinched, and momentarily in took a breath as if he'd forgotten where he was.

 _Mycroft's missing._

 _Molly and John knew._

 _Eurus said Viola is in danger._

 _Save Mycroft._

The consulting detective tilted his head, internal orchestra pushed aside. "What was my brother's mental state?"

Agent Chen frowned, "He's kidnapped and you're inquiring about his mental health?"

"A week ago, we were accosted at Sherrinford by our psychotic sibling. Eurus tortured us. Mentally scraped us bare. Now, you propose a group has emerged that bears the appearance of Moriarty's network and he _kept it_ from me. By choice. Now, you tell me he tricked his agents, walked out of his own volition, seemingly into a trap…." A dark laugh escaped his throat, "This isn't my brother. His security protects him. He wouldn't walk away."

The agents in the room shifted.

Sherlock's cheek clenched, "You imbeciles watch him twenty-four hours a day and you expect me to believe he was _well._ " Suddenly, he stepped forward, his palm landed on Molly's shoulder, announcing in a scathing tone "You're all lying."

Air left Molly's lungs in an instant. He knew.

"…He was not himself." A small voice announced.

Lady Smallwood stood apart from Mycroft Holmes' family circle. Her face displayed control. Sherlock saw straight through it. "You were with him yesterday evening."

"I was, yes."

"It appears Mycroft has found a goldfish-"

"No, it isn't like that," She sighed dejectedly, "After Sherrinford... I suppose he needed companionship."

Sherlock almost laughed with derision. Almost. Then he thought of Molly. How Eurus had driven them together. His face didn't move. "Yesterday was different. Why was it different?"

"He didn't speak. We sat… Drank scotch, he remained totally oblivious. He'd asked me to join him, yet it was if he didn't see me there."

Violet grimaced, "He knew he was going to be taken-"

"Wrong. No." Interjected Sherlock, "He's far too self-righteous to let himself be sacrificed like that. He," His palms fell together, fingers against his chin, "He knew he had to go somewhere. Private." Sherlock flicked his head back to the agent, "I need context. Mycroft's exact movements and correspondence over the week. I also need to see this evidence of his kidnapping, video I presume-"

"On the dark web, yes. Totally encoded."

"I also need every single piece of information about this supposed splinter group. Not a detail can be left unturned."

"Mr Holmes, as per Mycroft's specific request, in the case of his disappearance, he has placed you at the head of the investigation."

The air moved in that moment. The words were simple, yet their meaning spoke bounds.

Mycroft had a whole empire built around himself, carved from years of work. Yet in the case of his life being in danger, he trusted his brother to save him.

"How do you wish to proceed, sir?"

For a moment, Sherlock stood still. The cogs of his mind freezing at the impact of the request. "I need all your information. John and Molly stay with me. The rest of the family are to be kept under watch in these premises."

Agent Chen gestured at the red-haired agent to lead the others out of the room.

Sherlock Holmes stood stiffly. A cold hand gripped his own, and he shifted his head to see his mother gazing up at him with a gaze too pained for words.

"You'll save him, Sherlock. Just like he's saved you time and time again." Violet stood taller to press a kiss on her son's cheek. Sherlock didn't react.

Horace hesitated, on the cusp of speaking, but shook his head, and followed his wife out of the room.

Viola stood quietly and took Rosie out of John's arms. The child protested. Viola stepped around the desk and to her father's side. She wanted to say something. Anything. She worried her bottom nervously, blue eyes wandering.

"…Sherlock, I-"

"…I'm sorry this event has coincided with you coming into my life." Sherlock spoke plainly in Italian.

Viola's face transformed with empathy, "If you need me to-"

"I know, Viola. Thank you."

Viola offered a weak smile, before leaving the room.

At their absence, the room fell still. Sherlock's hands palmed into fists. The anger that had boiled in the pit of his stomach lay on the precipice of falling.

"John, Molly."

The pair turned hesitantly. Molly held back at a gasp, Sherlock's face was not his own. Darkness laid in its place _._

John stood, "Sherlock, mate… I know this looks bad-"

" _Bad?"_ Sherlock spat, head flipping around, "You lied to me. You _both_ lied to me."

"It was for-"

"You used _Mary's death_ to get me off the track-."

"Sher-"

"Molly _kissed me,_ so I wouldn't notice-"

John's eyes widened, "…I didn't know about that-"

Molly stood clumsily, "Please, I-"

"You're both here now for case. That's it. Mycroft spoke with you in confidence, your _information_ is what I need. Not your companionship."

John bristled, "Don't you dare-."

"You're here for your intel now," Admonished the detective, "That's all you are. Your _opinions_ are irrelevant."

Sherlock was thankful that Molly didn't respond. He didn't have to look at her. He didn't want to know what he'd do if he did.

* * *

 _I can't do this._

Viola had never been more grateful for a bathroom in her life.

Splashing cool water on her face, Viola let out a long-staggered breath. Her hands gripped the edges of the porcelain sink.

 _You don't have to stay here._

Since her nonna had died, Viola had longed for a real family. Beyond her mother and her problems. For a fleeting moment, she thought she was going to get that. Her father wasn't as horrid as she'd always been told, she had other grandparents, and the family Sherlock had built around himself was starting to have the potential of being her own. But now her uncle was missing, their lives turned on their axis's overnight, and she merely stood like a pawn as it played out around her.

 _You don't belong here._

Blinking back tears, Viola pulled out her mobile from the pocket of her jeans. It was almost one am, _even later at home_.

Quickly, she opened her mama's phone contact, finger hovering over the call button.

 _Come on, be strong._

She put it away.

A few moments later, she found herself leaving the bathroom and back into a large room. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stood awkwardly watching the scene around her. Agents bustled frantically, taking calls and arguing over CCTV screens. In the back corner, her grandparents were embracing. A lump formed in her throat.

 _You can do this._

Her feet moved slowly over to the couple. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. For a moment, they didn't seem to register she was there. Viola considered walking away. Then Horace Holmes' head lifted from his wife's shoulder, settling with shock and grief on the young woman. He cleared his throat and eased his wife out of his embrace. Violet Holmes turned and offered an incomprehensible expression.

This was yet another moment, in the list of many, that was going to change Viola's life forever.

They stood in stony silence. The Holmes' unsure on how to approach this woman after denying her existence for decades. Viola, whose dilemma over whether this was appropriate given the circumstances was driving her spare.

Viola's mouth parted, and she tried to find words. They didn't come. English completely failed her.

Horace Holmes wordlessly raised a hand and offered it to her. It trembled.

Viola's cheek clenched. She saw such raw sadness on the man's face she thought her heart would break. Mustering up confidence she didn't believe, she stepped slightly forward, bypassing his hands, and kissed both of his cheeks. Horace's eyebrows raised. Quickly, Viola did the same to her grandmother, stomach tightening as she felt the remnants of tears. Pulling away, she watched their perplexed faces turn to each other.

Horace practically whispered, _"_ Cultural differences."

Violet smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Suddenly, she wrapped Viola in her arms. The girl stiffened in shock. The sound of racked sobs met Viola's ears. Nervously, she attached her slim arms around the stranger.

Viola didn't understand that in this situation, she was the only light.

* * *

The list of information was endless. Sherlock found himself at a loss with how much had been kept from him, to what lengths the people who'd sworn loyalty had gone to keep him ignorant.

 _"…First activity when Eurus Holmes coerced…"_

 _"…Security break at Santander Bishop's gate…"_

 _"…To gain your attention…."_

 _"…The messages said IOU…"_

 _"…Photograph of Viola and you left on a corpse presented to Doctor Hooper…"_

 _"…Mycroft considered your knowing a risk to yourself-"_

"A risk," Sherlock placated the agent across from him, "I _know_ Moriarty's network. I gave my very _existence_ to ensure its destruction. My knowledge of its members and especially its survivors are better than anyone else's. Does your puny brain not compute the obvious?"

John, pursed his lips guiltily, "Mate… It's not Agent Chen's fault. He was following orders." A small sigh escaped him, "We all were."

"Wrong, John. Mycroft was the monarch whilst I was his foot soldier. A man on the front line understands. You're all _idiotic_ to have ever considered this a _rational decision_."

"Sherlock-"

"Mycroft is missing because, what," He laughed coldly, "You were worried I'd what? Relapse? I have a _daughter._ "

"That was why he did it, Sherlock, don't you see?" Molly's voice shook. _Since when was she confident enough to speak?_ "I… He was trying to protect you. He was worried you'd go too far, that you'd-"

Sherlock stepped over to her suddenly, with such ferocity her words fell away. John instinctively moved closer. Sherlock was unhinged. In this moment he didn't know what he was capable of.

The consulting detective bore icy eyes on this woman, who he thought he could have loved. "Your opinion does not improve this investigation, Doctor Hooper." He leaned closer, so much his breathing fell upon her skin, "I wonder if you could do Mycroft's post-mortem when he _dies_ because _you let him_ -"

Heat flashed across his cheek.

Molly Hooper stared up at him through hot tears, hand burning where it had just met his face. "You bastard." The word fell unnaturally from her lips. She didn't register herself pushing past John and out of the door. Soon as the partition closed, she burst into tears.

John watched in shock. Just as he was about to admonish Sherlock- he was frozen. Because for a split second, Sherlock looked as heartbroken as Molly had. John had never seen that face on him before.

"Mate," John's voice was softer than he'd anticipated, "You can take a minute, you know, it-"

"Every second passing is a second wasted." Sherlock reprimanded thickly, "Don't distract me."

John's mouth parted, but no words came. His friend's expression was clear. _Don't ask about Molly. I can't deal with it right now._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes couldn't remember the last time he had seen his brother cry, if he had _ever_ seen it. Mycroft Holmes was not partial to _feeling._

Sherlock wondered if he had misjudged his brother.

The consulting detective stood, watching with a wired expression a video playing on a small monitor. It displayed the staple of the British government tied to a small chair in a darkened room. There was a gash on his forehead, displaying a sickly line of blood around his brow. Ripped cotton formed a blindfold over his face. Behind him, the Vernet painting of Napoleon stood proudly on the wall.

It was a message.

 _We can tear Mycroft's empire like Napoleon's fell._

Speakers sung soft sobs, that belonged to the politician.

 _He thinks he's going to die._

Sherlock's blood ran cold. The cries stirred an abhorrent feeling in his steel encasement. Sherlock rationalised the reaction was primitive, visceral, and alien. Heat pooled over his body. If he had the people that had done this, he would have ripped their hearts out and thrown their remains into the Thames.

"This goes on for another two minutes," Agent Chen explained, "We can-"

"No." Sherlock spat, "I need to see _every detail."_

"Sherlock-"

"No, John!" The detective barked, "Every. Detail."

So, they watched.

Two minutes felt like an hour, till they could scarcely breathe.

The video turned off quickly, the screen fell black.

"Wait." Sherlock's palm lifted out in front of him, "Go back. That last second."

Agent Chen quickly followed the order.

"Slow it down."

As the footage played slowly, everyone saw what had caught the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

A hand sweeping across the very corner of the shot. Agent Chen leaned closer to the screen, "It's a gesture to cut off the camera-"

"Irrelevant-"

"Sir-"

"Get me a closer image of his hand."

John held back words of reassurance, the expression on Sherlock's face was murderous.

Agent Chen pressed a couple of keys, the screen drew the hand closer. Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly. "Young. Male. Early twenties. Approximately six foot one if the ratio is synonymous with most other men. The quality of the image is poor, but it's clear that the man has no callouses. He doesn't work in physical labour; an intelligence member, then. I doubt this is the one that laid a hand on Mycroft. Good… That's," He thought, "Something."

 _That's not enough evidence to find his kidnappers._

 _You don't know where he is, Sherlock._

 _You're running out of time._

"I need to visit my brother's home. See if I can find anything there that-"

"Anthea and her team have searched for hours-"

"But they're not _me."_

Agent Chen offered the detective a hard expression, "I'll sort out the arrangements for discrete transport."

Smoothly, he left the room.

Sherlock stood like a brick. A glazed expression took over, and John wondered if his friend was in his mind palace. He frowned and-

"No, I'm here." Sherlock's deep baritone penetrated the space.

"How did you-"

The detective threw back a knowing look.

John swallowed, and ran a hand through his hair, "Sherlock… I'm sorry. I know you won't ever forgive me-"

"I won't."

"But as long as you need me for this investigation, to help you bring Mycroft back, I will help you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed distrustfully.

"I," John struggled to formulate the words, "I didn't want to keep it from you. But Mycroft was sure… He was sure he could sort it within a week." John looked at his friend, hoping for understanding. "I believed him. Molly believed him. …We were wrong."

"You were."

Sherlock was making it hard.

"Listen, I don't know what's happened with you and Molly," John grimaced, "It's not my place, I know. But if I can do anything to help, _please._ Just tell me… You know she loves you."

Sherlock's brain flashed images of them from hours before. Molly's lips, flushed face, bodies so close- _Mycroft's missing-_ the staggering moment he realised he loved her- _Focus, Sherlock-_ the feeling of pure lust that gripped him, when he knew he could've taken her, should she have wanted-

"Stop distracting me!" Hissed Sherlock through gritted teeth. "I don't want to think about Molly right now!"

"Sherlock-"

His volume grew, "My brother is missing. He thinks he's going to die. Eurus knew about all this and I can't have the woman I love distracting me-"

"Wait!" John's arms threw upwards, face contorting, "You saw Eurus, when did you-" A beat, "You _love_ Molly?!"

The detective's face grew dark, "John, get your little brain around it. It doesn't matter. Right now, that singular entity is entirely irrelevant. My brother is _missing_ because of misplaced loyalty I put on the both of you. My _sentiments_ do not matter!" He spat, control falling like water off a cliff, "You and your idiotic principles; claiming to care about _my wellbeing_ when dangling your dead _wife_ over me, a death I blamed myself for!" Sherlock was shouting now, "You think I'm so robotic I wouldn't care- _of course_ , the sociopath wouldn't. Now look where we are. Mycroft could be dead for all we know. Eurus told me you were lying, that Viola is in danger- and that sentiment would only cloud my judgement." Sherlock let out a manic laugh, "She was right about you both, at least. Now let me focus, you're a soldier, John. Take your orders and act like one!"

Sherlock's chest heaved as the final shout exploded from his body.

John's eyes were like saucers. Several expressions passed over his face, but none settled.

An icy silence gripped the room.

Then, it clicked.

The air left John's lungs. His brow knitted, and a series of expletives fell rapidly from his lips.

 _Something's wrong._

"John, what is it?"

The army doctor ran a hand through his hair, gripping onto the follicles. "Maria said-"

"She's left the country-"

" _Before_ she left. She told me to tell you that some guy has been let out of prison," He clicked his fingers, trying to remember, "Matteo?"

Sherlock paled. _The man who had stalked Viola._

"She didn't say much, but it's something she wanted you to know. Said to keep her out of the news." John saw a horrific realisation hitting his friend, "Sherlock, what is it? Who is he?"

"Did she say when he got out?"

"Around two months ago."

His fingers pressed against his temples, and his eyes pressed shut.

Throughout Sherlock's life, the ability to deduce and connect facts was immensely pleasurable. His intellect was a tool that guided him through the frivolity of existence. He craved those intense moments of epiphany, where logic would prevail.

This, however, was not one of those moments.

It was jarring.

He felt sick.

On their first meeting, Viola told Sherlock that her call to England had been seven weeks before she arrived, now eight weeks ago. On the side of the Thames, she spoke of Matteo, the notes of longing he left, that she had told him that Sherlock was her father when she first found out.

It was all connected.

Deductions span like electricity, screaming answers and more questions, more and _more and more_ -

"Argh!" Sherlock yelled, arms throwing to his sides, eyes open wildly. "Mycroft's a decoy!"

"What?!"

"Mycroft's a decoy, John! I've been s _tupid! Stupid stupid-"_

"Sher-"

Sherlock leant to John's level, speaking quickly, "It's not Mycroft they're after. Five years ago, Moriarty met my sister for five minutes. He must've known about Viola-"

"You're having me on, this is-"

"Or Eurus did. I don't know how John, but they did. Viola found out about me a year after, she and Matteo were already friends back then-"

"Who is Matteo?"

"Her ex-boyfriend turned stalker. Keep up, John!" He gestured rapidly, "Moriarty must've found him. Planned it. Matteo is out of prison the _moment_ before Viola is thrown into my life. This is artwork, planned to the final brush stroke-"

"Are you saying?"

"Yes." He gulped in a breath, "It's not about Mycroft. It's about Viola. They want her. All those years ago, that bastard said he'd burn the heart out of me… This is his final legacy."

The large door swung open, both men jolted at the sound. Agent Chen walked in, quickly noting the flustered state of them. "There's a vehicle waiting for you, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you. John, fill Agent Chen in with our recent findings. I need Viola to be given a British passport, she needs to be completely under our protection. She is going to accompany me to Mycroft's house, and stay by my side hereafter."

John shook his head, "No- Sherlock she'll be safer here."

"No, she won't." He shrugged like it was obvious. "You lied to me, you, Molly and Mycroft. I no longer understand who I can trust. This is bigger than we thought, anyone could potentially be involved. Viola stays with me. She is safest there."

Quickly, the detective threw on his Belstaff and swooped out of the room.

* * *

With determination, Sherlock weaved through the pandemonium which was Mycroft's underground bunker. He scanned each room rapidly, looking for Viola. Urgency gripped him like a vice.

Brown eyes met blue.

He froze.

Molly blinked, shocked at his sudden appearance. She had been crying and was holding a sleeping Rosie to her chest to calm her anxiety. Sherlock unconsciously read her, so many emotions fell off to her he couldn't comprehend them. Apart from the guilt, that is. That screamed at him.

He wanted to leave. He had to leave. Yet he couldn't.

 _Because you love her, despite everything._

Sherlock suddenly moved close to her, fire burned into his icy irises, stirring the depths of the world.

"Molly," He started quietly, _don't show her you're weak,_ "They're after Viola. I need you to stay here. See if you see anything suspicious. Don't let them know that you're looking."

Her jaw dropped, and Sherlock knew this was what the general population called _love_. Because although he should hate her in this moment, he needed her. It was a simple human response, and he cursed himself for being so weak.

"…They're after Viola. Are you sure?" He voice was barely a whisper, she gripped Rosie close to her chest.

Sherlock returned a nod. He turned, and went to leave-

Molly grabbed his hand.

Sherlock froze, he didn't turn around, he didn't breathe.

"…I-I," Molly stammered helplessly, "I love you-" Sherlock flinched, "I know you hate me…" A small sob escaped her throat, "It's all my fault, I know. Just- erm, just know that… I love you. I'll do anything to make sure Mycroft comes back safe. Anything."

It took all of Sherlock's self-control not to react. He wanted to scream at her, to berate and chide her. He also wanted to kiss her until the world was consumed with beautiful white noise. He settled with stillness. Stillness meant he was unreadable, that meant he was safe.

"…I know." He replied, flatly, and then left. Viola needed protection, Mycroft needed to be found.

Molly would have to wait.

* * *

Ahmed yawned lazily, stretching out on a worn wooden chair. Guarding a prisoner was hard work. It was past two in the morning now. His stomach rumbled. _God, I could murder a kebab right about now._

The steel door behind him opened. Ahmed grunted, pushed himself up, and reached for a cigarette in his pocket. "You took yer time."

A tall young man entered the room, a sickly smirk gracing his features. "It's hard shopping in Boots when you don't want CCTV to catch you."

"Thought you didn't care 'bout that."

The man grinned, "Not yet."

Ahmed watched eagerly as the man reached into the plastic bag, produced a sandwich and tossed it over. He almost caught it, but the cigarette balancing between his fingers caused it to fall on the floor.

The man's grey eyes fell upon the lump of human tied up a couple of meters away. "How's our Little Corporal?"

"Ah he's very well behaved," Ahmed commented sarcastically, "A proper gentlemen."

The man hummed contently and stepped round to the 'Little Corporal' in question, swinging his plastic bag. With a flourish, he removed the blindfold that bound the other man.

Mycroft groaned, eyes protesting the light. Instinctively, he pulled up, only to feel sharp metal grazing his wrists. A sound of frustration escaped his throat.

The man knelt, bouncing his eyebrows "Buongiorno."

Mycroft's head was pounding, his mouth achingly dry. His back protesting being held in one position for so long. Fear flared in his stomach. "Are greetings really necessary-"

"I have a present for you," The man smiled, "Two actually. In this bag. Aren't you lucky?"

"The concept of gift giving is a ludicrous social construct." Rasped the politician.

The young man flashed a handsome grin, "I'm going to enjoy this much more now."

Mycroft watched warily, forcing his heart rate to slow as the man reached into the bag.

He pulled out a lipstick. The man looked between the item and Mycroft, tilting it around his fingers carefully. "I thought you'd like it."

Mycroft strained again, "...It isn't part of one's cosmetic palette."

"Hm, I think it would look rather charming." He rolled the r.

Mycroft swallowed thickly, "Your skin is too warm a shade for that colour."

The man paused, then threw his head back. A sardonic laugh echoed. "Please, Mycroft, you're a clever man. It's for you… Thought I'd take you back to your Lady Bracknell days."

The politician's controlled features dropped. _How did he know about that?_

"I heard your brother found your portrayal rather charming."

Nostrils flaring with anger, the politician fought restlessly to keep him talking. "…Why do you want me to wear it? There's hardly an audience."

The man pulled a mock-shocked expression. It reminded Mycroft of Moriarty. "Tomorrow morning you're going on air, to the whole country. And after the internet gets it, probably the world."

Mycroft's blood ran cold. "…You can't."

"Oh, but I can."

"You'll be putting the security of this entire _nation_ at stake-"

"-Collateral damage."

"You," Mycroft hissed, "Are dealing with a person who has the power to single-handedly start wars. Telling the world I'm not at my post is going to-"

"As I said," The man chortled, "Collateral damage." He reached over into the bag once more. A pistol emerged, and the young man lazily raised it, pressing it in between Mycroft's brows, "Unless you want _yourself_ to be the collateral damage."

Mycroft didn't respond.

"I thought so." The man beamed, grey eyes dancing under the fluorescent lights, "You can be my performing monkey."

Mycroft's eyes fell shut, the cold metal of the gun freezing his skull.

"I'm sure it'll get Viola's attention. She'll be so scared. Your brother will be scared as well."

"Leave them alone," Mycroft bit, "Do away with me, if it means you leave them."

"Very touching," Soothed the man, "I thought you were meant to be the non-emotional one. Hm. But no, I'm going to keep you. If it gets Viola here, it doesn't matter how."

"…You're sick."

The man tilted his head slowly, pressing the gun harder, "No… I'm just dangerous. Let's hope your brother doesn't get too close. He's always so sure about what he's doing." A sadistic grin broke out across his face, "Do you know who I am?"

Mycroft's cheek clenched. "…You're Matteo Conti. …I'm the one who made sure you were found guilty in your court case all those years ago."

Matteo stilled at that, but then straightened his arms, and leaned into Mycroft. His breath brushed the politician's skin. "Then you know I'm a lot more dangerous than your brother. A distempered charismatic psychopath is far more dangerous than a sociopath. I can't wait to get my hands on your brother. How he'll cry for his daughter… Music, Little Corporal, pure music."

* * *

 **A review box? Just for you? It's so pretty!**

 **Thanks again for your support- Next update coming soon!**

 **E**


	15. The Inevitability of the Future

**Hello you wonderful people!**

 **Just a quick note to thank you all for you support, we're now passed 50 followers, 30 favourites, and almost 100 reviews! How crazy is that! Can't thank you enough!**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

 **San Gimignano, Italy.**

 **2011.**

Hollow eyes bore into a bunch of white grapes. Fingers deftly stroked the fruit's smooth skin. Grapes had such pliable bodies, able to burst at the simplest squeeze… The man sneered at the fruit's juice that now dripped down his palm. He raised it and tasted the sweet texture. It made him feel powerful, to crush such a simple thing.

Jim Moriarty smirked.

This had all been a coincidence, if Moriarty had ever experienced one.

Moriarty was nothing if not meticulous. He had a plan, to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes once and for all. It had been his ally, Sebastian Moran, who had brought information that changed everything. Mycroft's personal accounts were impenetrable, but the humble parents of the sociopathic children left a trail. Payments sent to an Italian account from 1997-1999. Another payment in 2007, and one in 2011. Five weeks ago.

Three phone calls and one email later, answers arrived.

The sociopath had spawned a child.

Reminiscing, a deep smile tugged on the face of the criminal. Moriarty grabbed another bunch of grapes and tore one away, popping into his mouth lazily.

 _Viola Seraphina Esposito._

She was his atom bomb.

Excitement gripped his stomach; a fire being struck on the darkest coal.

At the end of the vineyard stood an old stone house. It belonged to Viola's grandmother. His team informed him that Viola, despite being resident in Florence, spent most of her life here.

Moriarty waited, harvesting more grapes for the slaughter as he did.

Suddenly, a door swung open.

"Viola!" A voice cried.

Moriarty glanced over, his soulless eyes widening.

….Sherlock Holmes' bastard child.

 _She's incandescent._

Viola moved ferociously, brown folder gripped in her hands. She was crying, red faced, angry.

She came closer. Closer.

Moriarty braced himself.

He moved.

Stepped directly into her path.

She hit his chest.

The file went flying.

She fell backwards onto the grass. The girl glared up at the strange pale man, affronted. "Che cavallo!" She exclaimed irately.

Moriarty stared, a helpless grin plastered on his face. His teeth bared. It was Sherlock Holmes slapped with softness. Long dark curls fell to her waist, a dark blue summer dress over her body. It was the colour of the scarf Sherlock wore to _look cool._ This was going to be _so fun._

Quickly, he offered her a hand, "Are you okay?"

Viola frowned, face contorting. _What language was that? English?_ She ignored his hand, and clumsily scrambled to her feet. Hastily, she wiped tears with the back of her hand, shoved him away, and stormed off, cursing, "Vaffanculo!" As she did.

Moriarty watched her go, leaning on one hip. He grinned again. He imagined it wouldn't be the last time he'd be told to fuck off by a Holmes.

Discretely, the spider meandered through the weaving vines, turning and twisting through endless greenery. Viola's footsteps sounded in his earshot. He would linger near her. Learn her. Understand her. Then, he would use it to break Sherlock Holmes' soul.

A dark shadow cast among foliage ahead and Moriarty slowed. Silently, he slinked into a vantage point, reminding himself that leg work was _not_ his forte. His dark eyes settled upon a young man- _Eighteen? Nineteen?_ Moriarty stilled, momentarily struck by the man's beauty. Wide grey eyes lay upon tanned skin, decorated with styled brunette hair.

He was waiting. His grey eyes distant, ghostly… Haunted. An onlooker wouldn't have seen it, but Moriarty would.

Because it was like himself when he was alone.

"Matteo!"

The young man flicked his head up, a persona taking over within an instant. Concern stretched over the man's face, but it was fake.

"Viola!" Matteo gasped, as the teenager appeared, "What's happened?"

Moriarty remained motionless, but inside his mind was whirring manically. Dark eyes growing black.

Viola thrust the file at her friend. Matteo appeared dumbfounded. Viola slipped on the grass, hugging her arms around her knees. Long black tresses billowed around her arms. Matteo carefully opened the file. Moriarty saw his face turn over too many emotions- _If you're going to act bothered at least do it properly_ \- and then silently he sat at the girl's side.

"…This man is your papa."

Moriarty's eyebrows raised, and suddenly he was thankful Italian was one of the five languages he knew.

Viola moaned, "Apparently. Guess it makes sense."

"What does?"

She gestured to her face, pouting, "…The reason everyone says I look like boy. I mean, _look_ at him."

Oh.

It was Christmas.

Out of all the days to come and investigate this girl, it was the one she had found out who Sherlock was. Moriarty considered it fate, and then laughed off the notion.

"Yeah, he looks like you. Wow." Matteo let out a nervous laugh.

Viola let out a defeated whimper, "You'd think mama, despite being a complete mess, would at _least_ have found a decent man to have sex with. He seems _worse_ than her… I don't even know why they think that now I'm sixteen I should _know_ this anyway. Guess I'm the girl with not one, but _two a_ ddicts for parents."

The young man tilted his head to her then, grey eyes studying her carefully. He falsified empathy on his features, "Viola… I'm sorry."

"Mm," She swallowed, a river of tears threatening to spill, "I just- I always thought he'd be _different._ Whoever he was. But no… He's a 'genius' who has been to rehab three times, and apparently _solves crime_ in between. What even is a high functioning sociopath?"

As she spoke, Matteo's eyes flicked down to her lips and back up again. Moriarty's raised a singular eyebrow. This was brilliant…

"Nonna said I should be grateful for this information… But why should I be? This man doesn't care about me. What do I owe it to him to get in touch?"

"He wants you to get in touch?"

She frowned, "I don't know. Nonna said the man who sent this made sure it was _optional."_

Moriarty was practically stood on his haunches. This was the most entertaining show he had ever seen.

The sun began to dip, and an orange hue settled upon the teenagers. Viola was so much like Sherlock, yet so different. Moriarty considered the question of whether Sherlock _knew_ the girl existed. This was an area he hadn't evidence in. But Moriarty understood, in the end, that it didn't matter. Sherlock Holmes attachments to people were the very opposite of the persona he portrayed. To protect his daughter, he would shift the world's orbit, whether he had known of her for years, or days.

Several times, Matteo tried to establish physical contact with the teenager, but she rebuffed him.

Matteo, a psychopath in love, was Moriarty's way in.

Love was his favourite weapon, after all.

 _What was it with the Holmes' and their ability to attach themselves to psychopaths at every turn?_

Viola would never remember the moment she encountered Jim Moriarty, yet it was an event that shaped the rest of her life.

* * *

 **Present Day, 02:43am.**

Viola yawned, running a hand through her hair, grimacing at the knots her fingers found. At least it was shorter now.

A small laugh landed on her ears, and she raised her piercing blue eyes to the older woman in front of her. "Your hair knots as easily as Sherlock's."

Viola returned a weak smile to her newly-acquainted grandmother, who seemed intent on making small talk. _To forget about the fact her son is missing,_ Viola reminded herself, _and to ignore the fact they kept your existence a secret_. She caught Horace Holmes starting at her intently and averted his gaze. It was like she was a precious artefact.

"So," Violet started, "What do you do for a living?"

"Er," She puzzled over the English, "I want to work in, ah, forensic… _anthropologia_? …Bones?"

The elderly couple shared a look. "So… Science?"

Viola nodded.

"I used to be a mathematician."

Ah. _Matematico._ Viola pondered if her intelligence had genetic heritage beyond her biological father. She straightened herself, and-

"It appears you're playing _happy families_."

Everyone winced, including Viola, as they turned to see Sherlock Holmes. He looked wired, dark, frenzied. _His brother is missing, it's normal._

Sherlock fought back every instinct in his body screaming at him to take Viola away, to hide her, to protect her, to go and kill this young man he had never met for daring to harm her. _Don't scare her, don't be an arse, don't-_

"Sherlock," Horace began, voice heavy, "Is there… Any news?"

"Apart from everyone lying to me? No." _Don't tell them Viola is in danger. Not yet. Get her out._ "Mycroft is as still as anonymous as invisible cigarette smoke."

Violet's cheek twitched, "Have you seen the video? The one they spoke about?"

Sherlock stilled. Mycroft's sobs echoed in his ears. _Tick tock…_

"He appears… Unharmed. For now."

Helplessly Violet sighed with relief. Viola's blue eyes hardened. Sherlock was lying.

"Viola. I need you to accompany me to Mycroft's residence." He suddenly addressed her in Italian, "See if we can find anything the others can't. My brother is a creature of meticulous habit. If there is something amiss, I'll find it."

The words were quick, consonants imploding from his tongue sharply. Viola's frowned deepened. "Why do you need me?"

Sherlock was grateful his parents didn't speak a word of Italian. "Because you're the only person I can trust at present."

That struck a chord within her. Something was off. Off in _a different way_. Viola nodded slowly, a black curl falling on her forehead. She pushed herself to her feet, offered her grandparents a sorry look, and followed Sherlock. To what, she didn't know.

Sherlock's stomach fell with relief. Having her close, he would protect her. Matteo Conti wouldn't have her. He would die trying.

* * *

 **03:06am.**

A soldier was supposed to be composed, carrying themselves with strength and dignity, despite the odds placed against them.

John hardly recognised himself. Sherlock had given him a job to keep him _useful,_ but the fact he had left to investigate his brother's disappearance without him spoke bounds.

Sherlock didn't trust him anymore.

John paced through the bunker in a haze, looking for Rosie, ignoring the special agents who spoke into earpieces frantically. Stepping out into a stairwell, his gaze dropped on the small form of Molly Hooper sat on the stairs.

She looked worse than him.

Guilt sat like a pit in between them.

"So…" John began, voice dry; he couldn't find the words.

Molly shuffled over quietly, "Come sit with me."

Without a word, John obliged. They sat, staring ahead at a plain wall, trying desperately to comprehend a way in which this would be easier.

The army doctor's face transformed over several expressions. "…You kissed Sherlock."

Molly wrung her hands together.

"We've been lying to him, keeping secrets from him… And you _kissed_ him. After _everything_ he's been going through, Molly. It isn't… It's not right."

Molly's eyes fell closed.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"We wanted to keep it quiet," Molly replied warily, "Because… It was new. And we don't know what it is- what it _was."_

John inhaled, trying to make sense of it. Honestly, he couldn't. Sherlock didn't do relationships. Then again, he didn't do children either. Yet here they were. "Have… Have you slept together-"

"No." The reply was quick. Defensive. Molly replayed the images of him when they'd gotten so close, a mere few hours ago. She was grateful they hadn't. It would have broken his heart even more.

John nodded numbly.

"It's over." Molly spoke suddenly, "He… He won't want me after this. I won't blame him for that."

John's breath stilled. Sherlock's words rang through his head.

' _I can't have the woman I love distracting me.'_

It had taken a second, for John's perception of his friend to turn on its axis. He spared a glance at Molly, grieving a love she had only started to understand. He almost told her what Sherlock had said. Almost. But a voice, that sounded remarkably like Mary, instructed him to wait. If Sherlock wanted to tell her, he could do it himself. If Sherlock decided he couldn't love her after this, then it would be easier if Molly didn't know.

Molly let out a long shaky breath, "…I miss Mary… She'd know what to do."

John's heart twisted, grief swirling like an ocean in his stomach, "…I miss her too."

Footsteps approached behind them, and they both turned. The redhaired Agent from earlier looked down at them. In her arms, she bounced Rosie who was thankfully still asleep. Her eyes were kind, empathetic unlike most of the staff in the vicinity. "Doctor Watson, we need to see you about the latest developments-"

"Wh-What developments?" Interrupted Molly.

 _Viola's in danger. Mycroft is a decoy._ John shook his head, "I'll explain everything later, I promise."

Quickly he stood and followed the agent back up the stairs. His reassuring words did nothing to quell the fear that spiked in her chest. Molly ran her hands over her face, pressing her elbows to her knees.

"So," Violet Holmes' voice emerged, causing Molly to jolt; the older woman moved into the stairwell, "You and Sherlock, then."

Molly felt her stomach hit the floor.

* * *

 **03:31am.**

 _Can England get any colder?_ Viola shivered as the bitter air met her skin. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, holding back a hiss as her healing rib decided it didn't like it.

She heard the car door opposite shut, and watched Sherlock hastily moving from the vehicle immediately to a woman with brown hair, talking to her rapidly.

The car journey had been… Strange. Sherlock had seemed bipolar somehow, and her unease had grown tenfold. For minutes at a time, he'd drift away. His hands would gesture around him, as if he was making diagrams with his mind. A moment later, he'd look lost. Viola worried he was heartbroken. The next, he'd speak at her frantically… He'd tell her what to do, if she had to run. How to steal money. How to not get caught. How to speak to an attacker to 'prolong her existence'.

Viola, in that moment, realised she was terrified. And she wasn't the one in danger.

"No, no, no!"

Viola came back into reality and tensed as she saw Sherlock barrelling up to her. The detective shrugged his coat of his shoulders, fumbling with the material until he held it open. "Put it on."

"…Why?"

"You can't hold yourself like that with a bruised rib, Viola. Put it on."

Biting her lip, she moved, stepping into the huge monstrosity of a coat. She was thankful she was tall, but it still nearly reached the floor, her fingers scarcely poking out of the sleeve. It smelled like him. Viola found the smell strange. The whole _thing s_ trange. Awkwardly, she bent her arms and found the collar, pushing it upright. When she looked up at her father, he was staring at her with the most complex expression.

"What is it?"

"…You put the collar up."

"Isn't that's how it's supposed to be worn?" Viola's brow knitted in thought, "You always do it."

For the first time in hours, a glimpse of a smile traced his sharp features.

… _God, I won't let her get hurt._

* * *

 **03:36am.**

It was like a dam had burst.

Molly told Violet Holmes everything. Molly cursed herself as every word fell, because she knew Sherlock would hate his mother knowing his private life. But it had been hopeless. One admission had fallen into another into another. Her heart was left bare, raw, ripe for the belittling.

Violet had stood stoically, the only tells of her shock being the occasional bounce of her eyebrows, the tightening of her lips.

"…It's all my fault. He has trusted me for years, he's been more of a friend to me than he'll probably ever understand. I abused that… I let my want for his love get in the way, and it's ruined everything, I know that-"

"Molly breathe."

The Pathologist suddenly gasped, as if she had forgotten. She stared at Violet, who was seemingly unreadable. Much like her son. _I've said to much, she's going to despise me, she'll-_

"Please don't give up on him." The words were soft, a request from the deepest strings of the heart.

"…He said I'd be responsible if Mycroft dies-"

"What I heard is my son under a huge amount of pressure and shock, being volatile to make it easier to cope with."

"Because of me."

Violet studied her for a moment, the woman was so heartbroken. She loved Sherlock. She'd never encountered a human being who treasured his heart and soul like this. "Well, you certainly haven't helped matters," Molly winced, "But I don't perceive it possible that you'd lie so vehemently if you thought it would hurt him." Violet inhaled softly, "Deep down… I don't think Sherlock believes it either."

"Why… Why are you being kind to me? Mycroft is missing because of me."

"It's not just because of you, Molly." Resolve grew on the woman's body, "Sherlock has let you in, in a way I didn't think would ever be possible… You're part of my family now."

"A family I've put at risk-"

Violet softened, and with a huff of creaking bones, she sat at Molly's side. "Only because you wanted to protect him. Because Mycroft thought he could." Violet's cold hand reached out and laid on top of Molly's, "I can't excuse your actions… But I understand. Heaven knows I've made some _dreadful decisions_ for my children."

Lip trembling, Molly mumbled, "I just want to do what's right."

"Then fight for him," Violet squeezed her hand, "Don't let him go… Sherlock has suffered enough lies to last him two lifetimes. If he's ready to accept you into his heart, and you walk away, thinking somehow it will save him… I shudder to think what will happen."

* * *

 **03:38am.**

 _Every hour escalates the chances of the person returning alive diminishing._

Sherlock stormed into Mycroft's house like a bullet. His eyes jumped onto every nook and cranny, deducing and analysing. A brunette in heels trotted by his side, talking quickly. Viola didn't know if he could hear, away from the cacophony of his mind. She followed quietly, overtly out of place. Like the bunker, agents were scattered around.

 _Why does he need me here?_

Turning a sharp corner, Sherlock and the brunette woman made three steps into what seemed a study.

Viola watched her father worriedly, as he stepped towards a dark mahogany desk and froze. For a beat, he didn't move.

 _Mycroft left his pen at an exact ninety-degree angle to the base of the table. He had been prepared to leave. He hadn't rushed._

 _Tick tock…_

"Sherlock?" A mild voice called.

Viola flicked her head over as a man entered, and immediately recognised him. The silver-haired detective from a few days ago. He looked flushed, tired, and concerned. Instinctively, he offered Viola a half smile and did a double take. If it wasn't for the situation, she would have laughed at his reaction to her, dressed like this. It was like he'd seen a pig fly.

Lestrade cleared his throat, "Sherlock?"

 _The first seventy-two hours are crucial. Mycroft's been missing for twelve. Sixty hours to save Mycroft and save Viola-_

A hand landed on Sherlock's arm. He jolted. Pivoted almost as if he'd been attacked, then glowered. "Graham, what are you doing here? This isn't your division."

Lestrade sighed absently, "It's Greg… And John called me."

"John?" Snapped Sherlock, eyes flashing with annoyance, "Of course, he wishes to replace himself with another model-"

"What? No, Sherlock- Listen," Lestrade kept his hand and Sherlock's upper arm, and leaned in, tilting their heads away from Viola, "…I'm going to help you find Mycroft," His voice was hushed, "Does Viola know she's in danger?"

Sherlock's blood boiled. He went to move, Greg pulled him back. Sherlock's eyes flicked over to his daughter, who was looking the books on the shelf. "…Not yet."

"Right. Good. I've spoken to the Italian Bureau and they're sending all relevant information of Matteo Conti's case to both Scotland Yard and MI7 to track him down. If we find him, we find Mycroft, yes?"

Sherlock nodded, heart thumping erratically. _Focus._

"You need to tell her. Any information she has about Matteo at this moment is crucial in finding him-"

Sherlock's cheek clenched-

Greg frowned, "Why not? It's _important_ -"

"No," He hissed, "Everyone is distracting me. Molly. John. My parents. Viola, in danger, is at the _top_ of this list. If she's scared, if she breaks, I won't be able to concentrate. Her wellbeing is of paramount importance to me being able to focus."

For a moment, Lestrade appeared shocked, genuinely. Sherlock's words had been fiery, clinical, yet Greg had never heard such emotional words from the man. His voice lowered, "…She will be safer if she knows, you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that."

They held eyes for a moment, then Sherlock turned, continuing to examine the room. Lestrade let out a silent sigh of frustration.

 _Adults are the hardest margin to pinpoint, with most variables for motivations to leave._

The consulting detective fixed his hands in a steeple under his chin, small words falling from his lips, "Knew he had to go… Motive- Family… Eurus… Napoleon- Molly, Moriarty _\- Nothing…_ Liar- Molly, nothing… Nothing…" Greg's face tightened in worry as Sherlock began to pace quickly, "Nothing, nothing, nothing," A fist came down on the desk, "Nothing!"

Everyone flinched.

"There's nothing here," Sherlock spat to the small audience who gawped, "No signs of change of behaviour, no signs of an altered routine, no unauthorised people have entered… God, why can't he be more interesting?! Why can't he be more obvious?! Why does he have to be the smart one-" His head dropped, palm gripping the head of Mycroft's chair so tightly his knuckles went white, "He should have left a clue. He wouldn't just _go."_

Viola saw the silver-haired detective approach again, and they resumed talking in hushed voices. The man seemed to be trying to calm Sherlock down.

Forcing away tiredness, and a headache that was starting to form, she turned to the bookshelf once more. Her blue eyes widened as she saw a small book on Vernaccia wine. It was the only one on the topic. Her heart caught in her throat, as she pondered if her uncle had taken an interest in her all those years. If he had ever drunk wine from grapes her nonna had grown.

 _Wait._

A page of the book seemed folded over. None of the other books were like that. They were all kept in perfect condition. Blue eyes narrowing, and her lips quirking slightly to the side, she shuffled over. Afraid to draw attention to herself, in case she was wrong, she silently pulled the book from the shelf and opened it.

A small letter dropped out of it, and onto the floor. Viola swore under her breath, holding in a groan as she bent to pick it up. No one seemed to notice. As she stood, her side protested, but the feeling slipped away.

Desperately, she translated the words best she could…

It was related.

It had to be.

She turned to her father, who was still talking, "Sherlock?"

No response.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing. Viola shuffled on her feet, raising her voice a fraction, "Sherlock?"

The brunette lady looked at her curiously, as did two other agents. Viola sighed, grimacing, as she called, loudly, _"Papa!"_

Sherlock turned in an instant, as if from an electric shock. His manic gaze flicked from her, to the paper in her hands, and he swept around so forcefully he almost knocked over Lestrade. Sherlock took the letter it without a glance.

What he read, took the breath out of his lungs.

"Mate, what is it?" Lestrade pestered.

Sherlock lowered the letter, his face wide, running with a million thoughts. "Victor…"

 _What's worse Sherlock? Falling or drowning?_

 _Say it like you mean it._

 _They're not dogs' bones._

A red dog ran through his peripheral, barking wildly.

Without word, Sherlock thrust the letter over to Lestrade, and started barking instructions at the agents in the room.

"Find Dwight Trevor, do it now! My brother's life depends on it!"

Lestrade's brows narrowed, then raised, as it clicked. He'd seen the case report. He knew about Sherrinford. About Musgrave Hall. Hell, he'd made the call himself.

' _Mycroft,_

 _I was wrong._

 _Dwight Trevor'._

Dwight Trevor was Victor Trevor's older brother. Victor Trevor, the boy who had been murdered by Eurus Holmes when they were children. Lestrade had been trusted with telling the Trevor family Victor's remains had been found.

Something had to strike a chord on the ice man's shell with such distinction as to move its surface. Everyone had a weak spot. Turns out, Mycroft's must have been Dwight Trevor. Mycroft must have left, thinking he was going to see him. He'd walked into a trap.

Blinking in shock, he turned his head to look at Viola. The terrifyingly accurate image of young Sherlock looked at him, unreadable, yet beautiful. Lestrade let out a breath, "Twice you've solved something before him now… You sure you don't want to be a detective?"

Viola could only stare.

* * *

 **05:18am.**

The blacked-out car whizzed through London, enjoying the versatility of movement that came when the City slept. Lestrade was sat on the right-hand side, staring through the condensation onto the streets he knew well. Sherlock sat in the middle, a void. On the left, Viola, still in Sherlock's coat, helplessly starting to fall asleep. Anthea shot the three a bemused glance from the front mirror but didn't say anything.

Sherlock needed Molly.

 _Viola Matteo Victor Dwight Eurus Mycroft-_

People stood in his mind, dancing and singing, shouting and fighting, each begging for more attention. More and more-

 _They all need your help, Sherlock!_ Moriarty's voice cooed.

It was a painful moment, to realise he couldn't do this without her.

Since when did the great Sherlock Holmes become overwhelmed?

 _For God's sake, Sherlock. Don't think about Molly, I'm going to die! Your stupid boy!_ Berated Mycroft's icy tongue.

The consulting detective fisted his hands. Was this what it was like, to succumb to madness?

He needed Molly.

Sherlock doubted he would find Mycroft, if he didn't have her.

Dwight Trevor was being brought in from Sussex. Sherlock had around two hours until he arrived to get into a headspace that permitted him able to interrogate. Right now, he imagined he would throttle the man until everything felt calm. The man who had convinced Mycroft to leave, privately, within three words.

Mycroft was just as susceptible to sentient as the next man, it seemed.

He needed Molly.

Sherlock scarcely registered a soft form land on his shoulder. He realised after a moment, and he flicked his eyes downwards, His chest tightened. Viola had fallen fast asleep, against his side.

"Christ." He breathed, willing down _everything_ that battled to the surface.

Lestrade turned his head, eyes wandering over the scene before him, before focusing ahead, "She's so perceptive, Sherlock… I know everything around you is falling apart. But you're so lucky to have her."

No response came. Lestrade wondered if Sherlock had gone into his Mind Palace.

"Molly lied to me" Sherlock spoke quietly.

"...There is something going on between you, isn't there? I knew it."

"Is… Was…" Sherlock swallowed, "How do you keep going back to your ex-wife after she has mistreated you for all these years?"

Greg tensed, and Sherlock frowned wondering if he'd gone over the line. He was never good at gauging these things. "Sherlock, people aren't pretty. They're messy. We make mistakes and must live with them. I don't believe in holding grudges against people you love."

"Is that why you still work with me?"

"Piss off." Lestrade laughed quietly, revelling in the slightest change of atmosphere. "Sherlock, with what's happening… I imagine you're finally understanding who you need in your life. Go to them. You never know what will happen tomorrow."

"The inevitability of the future is our downfall."

"…I know we'll find Mycroft. We've worked on cases more confusing than this. Before John, even before Molly."

"A couple of years ago, Mycroft said to me that my loss would break his heart. It appears he would go a long way to protect it." A beat passed, "I must concur that I cannot bear to lose any of you, not after Mary. Not even Mycroft deserves it, after everything he's done. Eurus succeeded, she's spread me out like a carcass in the jungle. I can't cover the taunts of life I wished to hide before."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Offered the detective inspector, "For you."

"I doubt it… But I concede, it's fact."

* * *

 **5:52am.**

Mycroft had planned for every situation to fall upon his bunker, it appeared. Beneath his control room, there was a living chamber. 'For emergency circumstances that deemed a prolonged stay'. Viola, scarcely able to stay awake, was convinced to take refuge there. She had complained, but Sherlock had reassured her.

' _You are not inadequate for needing sleep. I rarely sleep, Molly is used to working nights, and John spent years on army hours. Please rest, your ability to be useful is decreased with every single moment you remain conscious.'_

Viola hadn't wanted to sleep. Honestly. But the moment her head hit the pillow, she faded into darkness.

Sherlock seized the opportunity with vigour. With Viola momentarily inactive, the game to capture Matteo Conti was on.

He called a meeting of all of Mycroft's superior staff, and those in charge of the secret services. Without thought, he also called those whom Mycroft deemed his family. Although he hated how he wanted to take Molly's hand, to feel everything and nothing, to make this easier.

Information was thrown quickly. Intel on Matteo and Viola's history, and their court case that spanned 2013-2014 on stalking and threat charges. Photos were displayed. Viola and Matteo alongside friends. Her hair was so much longer, she appeared to carefree. The bastard kissed her cheek on one photo, and Sherlock had felt sick to his very core. Lestrade had steadied him with a firm look. Similarities were drawn to Moriarty's movements. In 2012, Matteo had taken to Ireland for a week, just after Moriarty had died. The reasoning was still unknown. Matteo was a legally diagnosed psychopath, yet this had somehow been overlooked when he had been released from prison earlier because of 'good behaviour'-

It happened in an instant.

A screen switched.

And then another.

Another.

There he was.

Mycroft.

On air.

To the nation.

Mrs Holmes dropped a cup of water, it smashed on the hard floor.

"Track the signal! Now!"

The room exploded with panic. Agent Chen bellowed at everyone, and they fell silent.

Sherlock's eyes were blown wide. Air stopped circulating.

His brother sat under a dim light, a camera angled at his shoulders to his face. Too close. A dark pink lipstick had been smeared on his lips. Behind him, the missing Napoleon painting stood, strong, staring.

 _Hasn't slept in thirty-two hours. Afraid. Save Mycroft. Three, no- Four people are guarding him. Save Mycroft. Save save save-_

Molly's hands clasped over her mouth.

On screen, they saw Mycroft look forward as if presented with something to read.

 _Mycroft's face contorted, and hateful eyes glanced around the space he was in. "…Can I, can I paraphrase?"_

"Jesus," John cursed, "Don't be high and mighty now, Mycroft, come on-"

" _Yes," A foreign accent replied. Mycroft nodded. His lips moved several times and no words fell. He didn't want to do this._

A group of agents started making notes immediately.

"…This is on air to the whole nation." One breathed, "Everything has been hacked."

Molly gasped, looking from the agent to Sherlock. He looked like a ghost.

 _Mycroft clamped his eyes shut, as the first few words rolled, "My name is Charles Myc Emile. I am, a- A security accountant within the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. And…" He grimaced, "I'm a little Corporal, short and stout. Here is my candle, here is my spout."_

 _Behind the camera, people laughed._

Mr Holmes let out a sob.

Sherlock flinched at the sound but didn't move. The only tell of a reaction were his hands, that now balled into fists, in and out, again and again.

 _Mycroft winced at the laughter. He appeared to see his next lines of speech, because he physically recoiled, hunting for anything that would stop him saying it. He didn't find anything. He looked ill. "…William."_

Sherlock's eyes flicked up immediately.

" _My kidnappers state that if the anthropologist isn't given to us within one hundred hours-" He paused, "No, no I won't say this, you imbeciles no-"_

Lady Smallwood let out a small cry of desperation.

Molly forgot how to breathe.

" _SAY IT!"_

 _Mycroft's head dipped. "…Within one hundred hours, then I will expose England's defence detail on air to every other country in the world." He swallowed, "A-Anyone wanting the UK to be yours? Post your bargains on Twitter, using hashtag 'littlecorporal', and we will deliver you a country for the taking. All they- God- if you wish to save the country, then deliver the anthropologist to us. …But don't expect to see her alive again."_

A proverbial pin could have dropped.

"… _Is that it?" Breathed Mycroft after a beat, "There's nothing else?"_

" _Yes, actually," A female voice replied off camera, "Any last words?"_

 _Mycroft's face transformed into horror, a bead of sweat shimmered on his forehead._

John kept his gaze focused on Sherlock, who for once, looked like his brother. It turns out they looked the same, when everything they cared for had a gun to its head.

" _I, uh…" Mycroft swallowed back something akin to sob, "William, I… I take full responsibility for any pain I have caused you over our existence. The East wind should have been contained. You should have understood. …Tell my parents I'm sorry, for not protecting our family."_

"No, Mycroft-" Violet Holmes whimpered, "God, no, idiot boy don't give them what they want, please, God-"

" _Don't… Don't despise the doctor's in your life. They both love you. Sentiment may be a defect, but it's a burden we all must bear. Likewise, don't abhor those who try to understand you. Four people in my life have gotten close, but non-succeeded." Mycroft stopped, his expression hardened._

Mycroft was about to snap.

"… _Sally said, likewise to opinion, four maids are better than five."_

Anthea recognised the words, and immediately ran over to the agents., "SL4, he's in SL4." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

" _Sally knew, likewise to men, four horses are better than five."_

He said it again, alternating the nouns each time.

" _What's he doing-"_

" _Fuck he's giving away our location!"_

And again.

" _Cut the stream!"_

" _I'm going to kill him-"_

And again.

" _Stop the stream-"_

And again.

" _Grab the pistol!"_

" _CUT IT OFF!"_

Mycroft shifted, politician back in an instant. "Zephyrus, save the daughter. She's known for days. Ti Sono Mancata! Ask her. She knows! Zephyrus! Zephyrus!"

The line went dead.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then, everything erupted into chaos.

Sherlock's mind was on fire. The mind palace was changing and evolving but into something horrifying. Too many people to save. Too much on the line. He couldn't do it. Mycroft might be dead.

 _He might be dead._

 _You weren't quick enough._

 _I can't do it._

He didn't register himself moving. He didn't register him grabbing Molly by the arm. He didn't notice them leaving the room and running another whole minute until they were a whole other world away.

Then suddenly, he was kissing her. Desperate. Stroking her hair. Bodies pressed together. She was stiff in shock. But he counteracted her with more control. The white noise came rushing in, the sweet ecstasy. Yet it wasn't sweet. He felt wetness on his face and hated himself for making Molly cry, he didn't realise it was from himself. He held her tight. Not breathing. Not letting go. Never letting go again.

"Sherlock-" Molly gasped, pushing him away gently.

He hated her, for that. He wanted to kiss her again. So much. Their foreheads fell together. Breathing heavy. Sherlock's eyes opened, and blue met brown. He couldn't speak- he couldn't move. Molly's hand slowly reached up and rested on his cheek. Her eyes watered.

His arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her close. Molly's head landed on his chest, his cheek rested upon her hair.

How long they remained like this, neither would be sure.

Detective and Pathologist, in each other's arms.

As the United Kingdom's bargaining chip slept a floor below.

There was nothing to say.

* * *

 **Well well well...**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this chapter!** **A lot more Sherlock/Molly interaction in the next one!**

 **Please let me know your thoughts- I read and adore all of your reviews...**

 **See you at the next one!**


	16. Bird Song in a Storm

**Hello everyone! Just want to say a HUGE thank you for the response to the last chapter, it's so amazing to have you all on board!**

 **PS - Sorry for the slightly belated update. I've been busy performing!**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

 **San Gimignano, 2011.**

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Moriarty glanced at the _baby psychopath_ , leaning against one of the town's archaic towers.

Matteo jolted, grey eyes practically asphyxiating the strange man in front of him. _Who wears a suit in March?_ "Who the hell are you?"

Moriarty offered a polite smile, laced with menace, " _Have_ you?"

Matteo falsified vexation, "I don't know who you are-"

"You like that girl. Viola." Moriarty tilted his head, eyebrows raising playfully, "You waited for her in the vineyard. How long did you wait? Does she know you were _waiting_ for her?"

Grey eyes narrowed angrily.

"That's what I thought."

Matteo's eyes steel irises bore into the black caves of the other man. "…Leave me alone."

"You think she's going to help you." Moriarty shrugged, "She won't."

Matteo turned away.

Moriarty slinked like a panther, talking lyrically, "You think her love will teach you to understand emotion. You think she'll take away the bloodlust… The want to kill. That girl is _not_ going to help you, Sunshine."

Despite discussing blood, Matteo had turned white. "How… How did you know that?"

Moriarty fixed the boy with an expression that was almost welcoming. "Because you're like me… I was like you once. But I stopped denying what I wanted… Now I take and take _and take_ -"

"Tell me what you want."

"Oh," the criminal pulled an overly shocked expression, "Not boring you, am I? I'm here for Sherlock Holmes."

"Viola's _papa_?"

Moriarty quirked an amused eyebrow, "He's a very bad man. I came here to warn her… He wants to take her back to London and never let her come back."

Darkness flashed over the boy's face. "…She can't leave me."

 _He's obsessed and he's only eighteen._ Moriarty rolled his shoulders back, "What if I told you I could help you win her round. A relationship guru, if you would." Matteo tensed. "Okay, maybe not _that_ cliché. But let me tell you if he gets her… She won't come back for you. They will be off playing happy families until-"

"No. Viola won't leave me. _She won't."_

"You need to work on your acting, sweet cheeks. Anyone would believe you're in love." Moriarty reached out and gently ran a thumb over the teenager's cheek. He didn't move.

"I don't know you-"

"But I know how to keep Sherlock Holmes away from Viola. He is such a _bad man_. …Do we have a deal?"

Matteo looked to the ground.

"Do you speak English?" Moriarty asked suddenly.

Matteo blinked, "I do English tours of the town. Why?"

The criminal smiled, it reached his eyes like acid. "Teach Viola. It'll be useful… It might even get you laid."

"…Who are you?"

Jim Moriarty moved, confidently. Flamboyantly, his palm outsretched.

A good predator travels in a pack; Matteo would be the _finest_ acquisition.

"I'm Jim Moriarty," Their palms met, "Hi!"

* * *

 **Present Day**

 _There was nothing to say._

For a while, neither moved. The world spun underneath their feet, yet it was silent. The undulating pulse of danger keeping them rooted to the spot. Molly felt as if the whole of London was waiting for their next move. _His_ next move.

Sherlock's hands held her waist, just a fraction too tight. Against his chest, Molly heard the rapid strums of his heartbeat, shouting his fear and doubts and everything that the human eye wouldn't perceive over his calm features.

 _Mycroft could be dead._

 _Viola is in grave danger._

 _He isn't okay._

Biting her lip, Molly reached downwards, placing her small hands over his, and moved them off her, relieved at the release of tension. A funny expression passed over his face: Disappointment? A small sigh escaped her lips as his hands turned, and entwined their fingers together. It was an unfamiliar feeling, yet it felt right.

 _Knock knock knock-_

Molly flinched, but Sherlock remained unmoved. She suddenly realised where they were. A small room with kitchen appliances, high tech and pristine. Instinctively, she knew on a normal day this was for the staff.

 _Knock knock-_

"Mr Holmes, sir. We need your input on how to proceed."

Sounds started to gather. Hushed voices, panicked, waiting. Molly turned her gaze again to her counterpart. He was staring at the door, eyes flicking over it rapidly.

 _He isn't ready._

If she wasn't there, Sherlock would switch, façade over him in an instant. He'd bark orders without thought, shower insults, anything to get the job done. This… _hesitation_ spoke bounds. Resolve taking over, she found herself letting go.

Molly's feet moved, she opened the door, and stepped around. Dutifully, she closed it behind her.

A plethora of agents gazed at her expectantly. Just behind, she saw John and Lestrade, who looked concerned. The agents were on their haunches, ready to strike whatever was needed to return Mycroft Holmes.

Subconsciously, her small hands twisted the length of her hair over her shoulder. "Can you give him five minutes, please."

In her peripheral, she saw John step back. John knew this was unusual. Molly knew it'd never happened before.

"We don't have five minutes, Doctor Hooper," Placated an American agent, "There is too much at stake."

 _Come on, be confident, for him._

"T-there is a man in there with his brother missing, possibly dead-" Her voice cracked, "His daughter in grave danger, and _everything_ left on his shoulders." They're unimpressed, unwilling to give her empathy. Anger swelled within her, "If you have a _single_ shred of human decency you will give him five minutes. He isn't a machine."

A low murmur travelled around the group. Lestrade looked shocked. John looked proud. Molly met eyes with Agent Chen, who, through an unreadable guise, offered the slightest nod.

Without another thought, she turned and slipped back through the door.

Sherlock stood rigidly, staring at her as if she'd just flown. Whenever he considered Molly Hooper, a woman most thought of as simple… They were wrong. So wrong. She was the most complicated mystery that had ever called his attention.

Sherlock's mind was a maze, every thought tangling with each other into a horrific knot with no end. A couple of minutes to organise the information was a gift too large to comprehend.

An unfamiliar emotion gripped him, a pure and visceral feeling. He wondered if it was love showing itself in another light. It's almost tantalising in vitality, weightless, like stars dancing above their eyes.

"Thank you."

Molly offered a small nod.

Silently, Sherlock turned on his heel, and laid both of his hands down on the kitchen's side. His eyes fell closed.

Recognising the gesture as one that suggested he was in his mind palace, Molly stood and waited.

She'd forever wonder what had drawn her to this man. This man, so complex and beautiful, a cascade of colours and flourishing music. He was an unexplainable, powerful force, on whom the whole world would listen eagerly.

Since when was she capable of addressing an entire room of powerful people just to protect him?

"I appear to be as baffled as you are."

Molly flinched, looking over to Sherlock, "S-Sorry?"

"How you found the strength to stand up for me like that. It's like a mouse against a pride of lions."

She didn't smile.

"Sherlock… Are you okay?"

"No."

His answer was short. Like ripping off a plaster.

"Mycroft could very well be dead," He responded clinically, emotionless, "I don't perceive a way in which a reaction to this would..." Words failed. His cheek clenched as if subconsciously he was scolding himself.

Molly inched closer, then stopped herself. Just because he had craved contact a moment ago, didn't mean he'd accept her now. An hour ago, he had hated her. "They won't have killed him," She grimaced at how unconfident her words were, "He's… He's their bargaining chip."

"He spoke out of line in a room full of criminals, on air to the nation-"

"If this man, Matteo, is really obsessed with Viola… I don't think he'd allow his tool to get her to his side to be pushed away so quickly."

Sherlock remained blank. Then, to Molly's shock, a look of hatred appeared so grounded it left her breathless.

"I have to hand Viola over. To Matteo."

Air left her. "Sherlock- no."

"Why not?" He snapped, "I don't owe her anything above what I owe Mycroft." The words become quicker, incredulous, "I didn't ask to be a father. For God's sake, a _week_ ago I didn't know this woman existed! Suddenly she materialises and its _responsibility_ and _sensitivity_ and every single artifice of existence I have no abilities in are apparently what I _must_ do. The sanctity of this entire country is at stake. That's millions of people, Molly." For a moment, eyes met, heated, determined against horrified. "Mycroft was an _awful_ brother. Secrets and snide remarks and always having to be on top just to satisfy his ego... But he's prevented horrendous things befalling this country… And he has saved me. So many times. From overdoses to torture, he was there." The last word broke, "I _need_ to put Mycroft first."

Molly was speechless.

The break, the denial of responsibility of parenthood that everyone had assumed was inevitable… Had finally occurred, at the worst moment possible.

Agitated, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, and slowly slid down a cabinet, until he met the floor. His hands lay over his knees, trembling just enough. Silently, Molly joined his side.

Softly, she spoke, "…You can't do that to her."

There was a brief silence, and then the baritone broke through the room, like cracks forming in ice. " _I know."_

Moly didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified that he disagreed with his own words; the man with the most astute opinions she'd ever known.

"I understand, Sherlock, I do. But she doesn't deserve it. Viola is innocent, in all-"

"I've been trying to rationalise my instincts towards her," Sherlock interrupted, complacent, "It is a new experience. The consulting detective wishes me to hand her off, and hopefully have an epiphany that results in all parties being unharmed, but," It was so silent they heard the humming of the fridge opposite them, "The _parent_ in this situation won't deem it _allowable._ Despite it being the most logical way forward."

Stunned, Molly unconsciously found her small palm reaching over his. He didn't react. "We will find another way around it, Mycroft gave his location-"

"He gave an area code. Presuming they will have already deployed agents, they still won't be there in time." A small breath left his lips, his eyes wandered away, "I don't know how John does it- be a parent. The worry far outweighs the satisfaction. I am _unable_ to risk her safety, to protect everything else..."

"…I know."

"How do I tell her that the man she thought was incarcerated is threatening the whole country unless she goes back to him?" As he spoke, his fingers parted, and hers locked in the spaces in-between. "Far too many complicated emotions will befall her, and I am ill equipped to deal with them."

"I'll tell her. It doesn't have to be an agent that way, and not you."

He didn't turn his head, but she felt him tense. The gravity of her offer being deciphered by the whirlwind of his mind. Molly wondered if he was lost for words.

 _I love you,_ Sherlock wanted to-

 _Find Mycroft!_

The reminder in his head was forceful.

"As much as your gesture would be sufficient, I do remind you that Viola's English isn't fluent. The last thing she needs is to be confused. It has to be me."

Molly felt disappointed she couldn't help him. "I can still be there, Sherlock… To carry the emotional burden you cannot. The one that will inevitably distract you."

Sherlock pondered how he had ignored Molly Hooper's love for him for years. She was the only person she knew who didn't want him to change. Somehow, over the past decade, she had come to understand him. Not in a brash, territorial way, but the smooth way in which Mrs Hudson would bring him food without requesting it, the way in which Mary would have laughed at his snarky remarks when the world frowned. Small, steady, and constant actions that spoke of accepting his shortcomings and adoring him for it. That was Molly Hooper.

 _I need her-_

 _She lied to you, Sherlock! Focus!_

Molly had betrayed him… If he loved her in this moment but hated her after this situation dissolved- however it would-, when his mind could compartmentalise it, he knew using her in this time would be _not good_. Because she would love him, even if he couldn't anymore.

"I can't do this without you." He said after a moment, "As much as I have the intellectual capabilities of doing this independently… You're not just here for the case."

She stilled.

"I don't know if I'll forgive you and John for all the secrets you kept from me." Molly turned away- "I cannot guarantee it. It is not something I can consider until my brother is found, alive or dead. And until Viola is protected. I do not wish to use you…"

Realisation slowly dawned on her. "But you need me."

"Yes."

"Sherlock… You want me to stay by your side throughout all this, but you are unsure whether you'll still want me afterwards?"

"That is the impasse I find myself in." Slowly, his head turned, and the ocean met the woodland in a gaze too complex for words. Sherlock braced himself for Molly to walk away, to stand proud in her shoes and refuse him. She didn't.

Molly looked at him, questioning, yet sure, all at once. "I'll stay."

"Molly, please don't lower yourself-"

"I'll stay." A gentle hint of a smile traced her tired features, "I'll stay… I'll prove to you what we can be together. I'll show you how much I love you. I know you don't feel like that, and I'll never expect you to, Sherlock. But we can get past this. I will not let you go through this on your own. I need you, as much as you need me."

For once, Sherlock didn't doubt her words

Hesitantly, he leaned over and pressed his lips to her forehead. Simultaneously, their eyes fell shut.

 _I love Molly Hooper. Impossible Molly Hooper. More than I can comprehend._

Time passed, a few seconds, a whole minute, neither would be sure. When he leaned away, they met eyes once more. Reassurance lifted the air.

Sherlock smirked and shot to his feet. Still holding his hand, he helped her up. "Let's go find brother dearest. A young adult forcing my brother on air and expecting him to behave? One would have better luck interrogating the Queen."

* * *

 **6:06am**

 _"Good morning, a breaking news story for you this morning: Television signals were hijacked across the United Kingdom displaying disturbing footage of a reported government worker-"_

"Good morning London," Agent Chen muttered sarcastically, downing the last of a bitter coffee that did little to revive him; he turned to an agent, "How long do we have before this story hits big?"

"It's already trending on Twitter."

Lestrade stood a couple of meters away, questioning John rapidly. The Army Doctor looked struck with worry and itching to be at his friends' side.

Two double doors swung open, and all eyes lifted to the returned Sherlock Holmes. Control graced him effortlessly. Only John recognised the slightly too dishevelled hair, and the slightly paler skin. Molly followed loyally behind him.

Violet Holmes raised to her feet, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge her. There were far too many pressing matters to attend to. "Have you acquired Mycroft's location?"

A tall lady with blonde trimmed hair looked over a laptop screen, "We've sent three teams to explore the most logical locations in SL4 pertaining to the footage, but we can imagine that-"

"They will have already moved if Mycroft was accurate in what he says. But SL4 is a start. Windsor. Near the monarchy, and a multitude of the countries richest. Evidence will be easier to obtain in such a middle-class area."

"Minor problem with that, sir," She continued, "The Metropolitan Police automatically deployed squadrons because of the footage. Once the press catches on, they will swarm the area too, trying to gain the story of what has happened."

Sherlock breathed in, about to lash out- when the door opened once more. The red-haired agent moved in, and wordlessly passed Rosie over to John. She fixed them all with a hard glance, "I've cracked voice stamps on two of the four people in the video behind Mycroft, discounting Matteo Conti."

Energy raised to the surface, people shot questions. John held Rosie closer, silently in awe of the woman who had identified criminals within minutes, all the while with a child in her arms. The Agent moved into the seat of the blonde woman, who moved instantly. Sherlock took her side, Agent Chen the other.

"You may not like the answers, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock didn't offer a facial response. Molly moved over to John, kissed Rosie on the head.

The Agent's hands typed frantically on the keyboard, and a moment later the screen was displayed on a large monitor.

Sherlock waited, like a lion long grass. The people responsible were an inch away. The people who would pay, for threatening his family. "Freya, please do get to the point."

The Agent, Freya- remained professional. "Here."

A voice played.

" _I'm gonna kill him!"_

"I searched it amongst our databases and…" Her eyes drifted to an icon and she pulled it up, a photo was displayed, a young man's mugshot, "It matches Ahmed Moran."

Molly gasped, loudly, and a few heads turned. That was the man who Sherlock had tried to stop attacking a woman in the street days ago. The man who threatened her with a knife. The one who Mycroft had called _irrelevant_ to the investigation.

Sherlock wore a similar recognition. But there was a realisation there, a slight parting of his lips, a rise of the chest, which suggested one thing.

There was more to this.

Sherlock bristled, "I thought the Moran's were in _witness protection."_

"They are. It appears the younger has come out of hiding."

Lestrade folded his arms, "He's the man who attacked you on the-"

"I've never seen photographs of him… He's the son of an old enemy," Sherlock clarified thickly, "Sebastian Moran."

John bounced Rosie in his arms, "Wait- I need context-"

Sherlock hesitated, just for a moment. But the benefits of everyone understanding outweighed the personal demons from his past ventures. He spoke flatly. "Moran was Moriarty's second in command. He was the assassin stationed on you, John, the day I jumped from St Bart's… And the day you were strapped with bombs at the swimming pool."

The Army Doctor paled.

"Ahmed Moran is his son. He was merely a teenager when this all played out. Mycroft put the whole family under the strictest witness protection scheme." His palms steepled under his chin, the answer obvious, "He's coming to get revenge."

John's words were weaker than he hoped, "Why would he want revenge?"

Sherlock scowled, aware of everyone hanging of his every breath, "…Because Mycroft employed me to _take care_ of Sebastian." He met a gaze with John, who looked ill, "He could have killed you, if I didn't."

There it was.

The answer to a question John had always wondered since Sherlock had emerged from the dead.

Had he killed, to stop Moriarty's network?

The answer was yes.

Now, the criminal's son was after him.

Winded, John didn't speak. Suddenly, he thought of Mary. When he had found out about her work, and Sherlock didn't judge her. Now it made sense. What sort of monsters had Sherlock encountered in those two years?

Sherlock forced down a wave of rage that bubbled within him. Moran had been... Dangerous. Heartless. Ruthless. Although he'd deny it, the thought of _another,_ made him sick to his stomach with fear.

"The other-" Agent Freya continued, "Is a young woman, twenty-six. Goes by the name of Jessica Haggerty."

"I don't know her." Sherlock frowned at the picture of the woman.

"No, but that's not important-" Freya opened another page, "She used to work with Moriarty's mother."

Molly tensed at the thought of Jim Moriarty having a family, the thought that he'd spawned from a black hole was a lot more favourable.

Sherlock sat up and swore under his breath. "It's obvious. It's Moriarty's last attempt to keep his network thriving. A good man doesn't die without leaving a legacy for his children."

"Go on." Instructed Agent Chen.

"It's highly probable that in his last years Moriarty groomed specific teenagers to be his next generation. Brainwashing them to suit his manifestos. Whilst I was away dismantling key players, the grassroots were growing. Now, they're acting out his final wishes. Moriarty knew about Viola… One must ascertain he was the one who told Eurus, not the other way around. And they orchestrated this together."

Agent Chen rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "I need your orders, Mr Holmes. We _need_ to interrogate Viola Esposito-"

Sherlock confidently stood, "No-" He glared, " _Not yet._ For Secret Service agents you really are _slow._ We are getting closer, I can feel it. We'll have Mycroft before today is out, but we need to run under my methods. If this works the way I expect, we'll have more motion on the case before she wakes up. Her out of the way is the safest option, right now." He turned to Greg, "Gavin, I need you to go to Windsor, help them find where Mycroft was kept, and derive their actions from there."

Lestrade nodded.

"I need to see Dwight Castleton. He is important. John, you will come with me."

John nodded.

"Agent Chen, manage operations whilst I am gone. Make sure Mycroft's identity isn't leaked to the press. Freya, come up with contingency plans in case this goes wrong. Prepare Agents in how to safely retrieve my brother."

Freya smirked, "Noted!"

"Molly, I need you to stay. If Viola wakes up you need to keep her comfortable until I'm back. Talk about corpses or something."

Deep down, Molly knew keeping her here was a way in which he wished to assure her safety. She nodded.

"Parents, drink tea and wait for this to blow over."

He pivoted as their jaw dropped in protest, and he swooped over to Rosie, patting her on the nose. The baby, now awake, giggled and tried to wriggle from John's arms into his. "Rosamund, keep your screaming to a minimum. England will fall without you focused."

In a motion like her mothers, the little girl smiled smugly.

"Right," Sherlock announced, "Action stations everyone. The game is on!"

* * *

 **6:23am.**

John almost jogged to keep up with the whirlwind of consulting detective who bolted a waiting car.

"Sherlock," He huffed, "Listen-"

The detective threw open a car door's drivers' seat and slipped inside. Sherlock seemingly from nowhere protruded a key.

"Mate aren't we meant to have a driver-"

"No time." Off they went. John almost asked where he had got the keys, and decided it wasn't worth asking.

"Have you forgiven Molly?"

Sherlock grimaced, "This is not the moment to be discussing-"

"What she did for you earlier took so much confidence."

"She loves me, John. She would die for me. Telling agents to back off isn't exactly a _talent_." He hit the accelerator with force.

John sighed, "Fine. Be like that."

An icy silence absorbed them for a moment.

"Who's Zephyrus?" Questioned John, "Who Mycroft said in the video?"

Sherlock changed the gear with his left hand, "It's me."

"Okay?"

"Zephyrus is the God of the West Wind. When I told Mycroft and my parents I wanted to be a father… He warned me against the dangers that could befall Viola," His voice quietened, "I told him if that was the case, then call me Zephyrus. My sister, Eurus, is named after the East Wind. It was a… Play on words."

"You two were always so dramatic." Mused John, before wincing realising he'd spoke aloud.

Thankfully, Sherlock smirked, "You don't have Mycroft for a brother." Suddenly, smirk dissipated, and emptiness took over.

"But," John continued, "If you're Zephyrus, and Viola is the 'daughter', then Mycroft said that she _knows._ You don't think she-"

"No." Sherlock snapped, voice flashing with frustration, "Viola doesn't know anything. She wouldn't hide secrets too. Mycroft got it wrong."

John held is tongue. His mind drifted back to when he'd found Viola having a panic attack in his hallway. He'd never understood what triggered it. Sherlock, by his side, was silently recollecting the exact same thing. Eurus' laugh rang through his brain-.

 _Focus, Sherlock. Change the subject!_

Sherlock, turning a corner, spoke suddenly, as if desperate to get out the words, "There weren't many people that I had to _deal_ with the same way as Moran. Four, in fact. Incarceration was always preferable."

"Mate, you don't have to justify it to me."

"Of course, I do. You are traumatised with imaginations of Mary's-"

"I'm a soldier," John cut in, "…I understand you did what you needed to do. I guess I should take it as a compliment, that you'd go that far to protect me."

The truth was, John was horrified. But Mary's actions had been out of choice. Sherlock's were always to protect those around him. That made everything different.

John decided to change the subject. "Why did you call that Agent Freya? Not by her surname. Do you know her?"

Recognition flashed, "John, don't you remember?"

The Army Doctor offered his friend a _you know I don't_ look.

Sherlock briefly flicked his eyes to his counterpart, intelligently analysing him, before returning to the road. "She was at your wedding."

* * *

 **07:36am.**

Horace Holmes gripped a mug of tea tightly in his hands, staring at the small screen blaring the morning news from the BBC, where a smart presenter was debating the broadcast with an unruly gentleman who had used to work at the House of Commons.

 _God,_ Horace thought, _they may as well have dragged someone off the street!_

"… _Still no identity, not a statement, brought in from the police or MI5 to clarify the identity of the man in the broadcast. Do you think it's a hoax?"_

" _No, did you see the man? He was terrified."_

" _There are no records of a government worker under the name Charles Myc Emile in public records. Yet the country has been turned afraid. Schools have closed. People are refusing to go to work. Is this a terror threat?"_

" _Things appear uncertain until the government can provide an explanation. Mrs May remains silent on the matter."_

" _Eagle eyed viewers have taken to social media, pointing out that the Napoleon painting was previously owned by the family of Hat Detective Sherlock Holmes, before being donated to the National Trust. Is this related?"_

" _Well, if it is, I'd trust this country with the likes of Sherlock Holmes more than anyone else."_

* * *

 **07:49am.**

Molly ran a hand through her hair as she watched the footage of Mycroft's broadcast for the umpteenth time.

She felt useless. There was little place for her. A Pathologist's scientific expertise was not relevant in this investigation. Honestly, she wished it _wouldn't_ become relevant. But there was a sense of loneliness as Agents and Officers mulled around frantically. It was for Sherlock, and she understood. But when did she become this person? Stood on the sidelines when help was needed?

So, she'd asked to borrow a laptop, and now she sat, in the corner of a large room, headphones in, watching again and again and again…

Mycroft looked awful, yet she recognised the strength in his eyes. It was the steely resolve of a Holmes. Molly wondered what he would blame for the string of events leading to this. The Conservative's forming a minority government with the DUP? Brexit?

She shook her head. Maybe it _was_ _her_ that needed sleep.

Pressing the footage to start once more, she decided to focus on the moments before the camera settled. Half a second's worth, wherein the main camera had been raised. Meticulously, she paused every frame. It was blurry, moving too fast for cohesion. But a small white bag lay at the bottom of a screen, recognisable blue logo across it.

 _Boots._

She leapt to her feat, adrenaline skyrocketing. She rushed to Agent Chen, and relayed the footage.

 _Three minutes later, CCTV of Matteo Conti in the shop at SL4 was found._

 _Five minutes later, they saw footage of him walking down streets._

 _Six minutes later, they had found where Mycroft Holmes had been kidnapped._

Molly couldn't help the flush that raised to her cheeks.

She wished Sherlock had been there to see it.

* * *

 **07:58am.**

"GO GO GO!"

Agents jumped from vehicles, firearms bared in arms. Heavy footwear and clothing created percussive sounds, decorated with shouts.

With a bang, a burly man kicked open the door over the nineteenth-century industrial building. An endless stream of people burst in. Lestrade gripped his pistol in his palm so tight his knuckles turned white.

Up endless stairs the herd travelled, teeth bared all the way. A shout indicated a man had reached the top, and a door was broken off its hinges.

The room was empty. But it was where Mycroft Holmes had been kept. Camera equipment lay haphazardly on the floor. The chair Mycroft had been kept on lay on its side, blood spattered on the floor.

 _But not too much to kill a man,_ Lestrade assured himself.

Mycroft was alive.

* * *

 **08:19am.**

John was surprised when Sherlock brought him to the very building he had first met Mycroft, all those years ago.

John had been naïve then. A soldier trying to return to normal life. No relationships. No child. Just a strange flatmate, with a brother who offered money to John to _keep an eye_ on him. John spared a long look at his friend, who despite all his best efforts was clearly exhausted. John knew adrenaline would drive him to the finish line, but the anxiety wore on his skin with more flair than his own Belstaff coat. Their lives had changed… So so much.

"What is the meaning of this- Let me go!"

John and Sherlock met each other's eyes, as the sound of dragging feet and protests met their ears. The look was familiar. They were about to interview a client.

The man was pulled around the corner.

Dwight Trevor was an old-fashioned looking man. Despite being brought in early hours, he wore a light grey suit and polished brogues. Dark blonde hair that was starting to thin stood upon his long face. His features were angular, laden with a pair of brown eyes too small for a skull his size. John reckoned he was the same age as Mycroft, perhaps a little older.

Sherlock, deduced the man rapidly as he struggled against two men that held his either arm.

"Dwight Trevor."

The man looked up as if he hadn't noticed him their before. "William! Thank _God it's_ you- Tell these imbeciles to let me go-"

"I don't think so."

Dwight looked confused, raising a discombobulated but stately brow, "Are you a fool?! Let me go at once!"

"Stop struggling and I might." Sherlock deadpanned.

Dwight grunted, but eventually relaxed, though his body remained stiff. "William, will you explain to me what is going on?"

"It's been twenty years."

The man stared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Since you last saw me."

Affronted, John watched Dwight try to stand taller. "Yes… Has it really been that long? I read about you in the papers, you and your blogger. You go by _Sherlock_ now."

"I went by Sherlock then, you just refused to address me as such."

"It isn't your birth name, Will-"

"You wanted to make my identity invalid _."_ The last word was bit through gritted teeth.

Dwight stilled, frustrated. "Why am I here? Is this about Victor? Because I _invited_ you to the funeral."

Sherlock inhaled sharply. Shocked. He hadn't… He hadn't known that. "A funeral?"

"Of course," Dwight shook his head, "He's finally come home."

 _They're not dog's bones._

John forced the feeling of cold water and the hollow eyes of a child's skull staring back at him away. _You're a soldier, act like one._

Dwight sighed, "What is it? Out with it, William."

Sherlock bristled. "Mycroft."

Suddenly, the man shifted. Very clear worry emerged. John's interest raised tenfold.

"What- Is he, is he alright?"

"No," Sherlock explained darkly, "He's been kidnapped."

"Christ," Dwight chocked, "By- By who?"

"You tell me."

"Pardon?"

"Mycroft, twenty hours ago, turned his entire security network off. To come to you." Sherlock nodded at John, who protruded the letter from his pocket, and handed it to Sherlock. "' _I was wrong'_ it says, how… Sentimental of you. I bet your tiny heart skipped a beat sending such proclamations of _love."_

"Love?!" John spluttered. Sherlock shot him a warning look.

"Don't do this, William. You don't have the right."

"Of course, I do," Sherlock flicked his head to John, "Context. That's what everyday people like, isn't it! My family and the Trevor's grew up in the same neighbourhood. Our parent had children of a similar age, Mycroft and Dwight, me and Victor. Eurus was the only one without a companion."

John caught horror in Dwight's eyes. _He knows Sherlock forgot about his sister._

"When Victor went missing, our families fell out. They accused everyone from my mother to me of being involved. Obviously, no one ever found Victor, so nothing could be proven. Thus, we continued to grow up apart. However, Dwight and Mycroft remained friends in private. _This_ I remember. Like the Capulets against Montagues, a fated love story-"

"It was not like that!" Argued Dwight, face reddening.

"Not for Mycroft, anyway. You see, my brother isn't interested in relationships, with anyone. He'd consider himself asexual, if one got him drunk enough to broach the subject. Dwight loved him with the recklessness of any teenager. When he finally got the guts to-"

"How," Dwight hissed, chest heaving, "in God's name, do you know about this?"

"There was a time, many years ago, where my brother would talk where it was necessary for him to alleviate his stress. Of course, my adventures into narcotics have betrayed this trust, and in recent years he'd rather communicate in riddles…" He thought for a moment, "He told me you made a move on him, and he rejected you. You accused him of harming Victor, because _why else w_ ould he say no?"

John's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"I can't account for my brother, but I do sincerely believe it is an event he never recovered from." Images of Mycroft's terrified face on the broadcast replayed across his peripheral. "You accused him of destroying your family. And I have never met a soul who understands the i _mportance_ of protecting family as he does."

Dwight blinked back hot tears.

Sherlock regarded the man without a shed of empathy. "Mycroft raised me believing love was a disadvantage. A weakness. You are the root of this. You're the reason it took me so long to see what love was right in front of me."

"Sherlock-" John warned softly.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Babbled the older man, "My brother was missing, and I couldn't- Any vice I got to blame someone, _I just-"_

"You're an idiot." Sherlock bit, restraining the urge to take his anger further. "Now, you send this letter… Why?"

Dwight's bottom lip trembled, "Well… I was wrong. He didn't hurt Victor. Of _course,_ he didn't. I wanted to… To make amends. I finally got the nerve to reach out after you finally found Victor's body." A tear fell, "My therapist had told me it was a good idea. I have to take responsibility for-"

"Who's your therapist?"

"A lady at Finsbury Park-"

John paled.

"I don't have her any more though-"

Sherlock stepped backwards.

"-She stopped replying to my emails-"

"STOP!" Shouted Sherlock, jolting both men. He started pacing, hands against his temple. Back and forth and back and forth and back and-

Sherlock stormed up to Dwight, dominating, leering, "Don't you remember my sister?"

"N-No-"

"You should have known better!" The detective bellowed manically.

 _His fault his fault his fault-_

"I don't understand-"

"Your _therapist_ was my sister. Eurus brainwashed you into sending that letter. She drew Mycroft out of hiding. She led him to Moriarty's grass roots. God, she led the path to open Viola to them- _John-"_

His knees buckled. John instinctively supported him upright. Sherlock's eyes glazed over. Forcing out heavy breaths, the detective cast a murderous expression on the man in front, "If Mycroft dies. If my daughter dies. It's your fault, do you understand?"

 _His fault his fault his fault- ERROR- his fa – OVERLOAD-_

Sherlock sagged, he could hear John's voice, but didn't register a word. In his mind palace, the world spun on its axis. But Molly found him. And she held his hand.

It was the only way he returned to orbit.

* * *

 **09:54am.**

Returning to the underground bunker, it appeared everything had changed. They had several leads to Mycroft's whereabouts, although they kept altering through the use of identical vehicles. The public were calling for the Prime Minister to make a statement regarding the broadcast. With the identities of some of the captors exposed, information around them and their involvement was growing by the minute.

They were drawing closer.

But Sherlock was doubtful. Because if they were like Moriarty, they could just be getting started.

Once again, he was awash with a feeling of _want._ For a man who had distanced himself from emotional attachments his entire life, it was beguiling how his brain concocted such powerful feelings towards one person. Sherlock recalled _the_ phone call. Had he loved her then? Had he loved her before? Was it a constant voice that was never heard against the cacophony of deductions and smart-arsed comments?

Now wasn't the time to dwell. It was time to interrogate Viola.

 _Mind over matter._

 _Be clinical._

 _Viola won't hate you. She'll understand._

' _Strong words, for a failing scheme, brother mine.'_ Mycroft hummed in his head.

Turning a corner, he finally laid eyes on the cause of his want. Molly at his entrance messily scrambled to her feet and stumbled over to him. "You're back."

"Indeed, I am present… Come with me."

They left once more, to the small kitchen from before. Thankfully, it was still abandoned, although the smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air. Once alone, Sherlock soundlessly wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her gently, as if she would break. Cradled her face. His body let go of tension he didn't realise he held.

Molly revelled in the closeness of him. The warmth in her chest alleviating the anxiousness of the world. She kissed him again, arms locking behind his neck.

He broke away, after a moment. "It's time we talk to Viola, Molly."

Sadness emerged on her soft face, "…We are getting closer to finding Mycroft, you know. Every minute. Viola will help that."

"I know."

Molly let her hands slip and carefully took both of his palms in her own. "I'll be with you. Every single step of the way. If she breaks, if she cries, if… She can't cope. I'll be there. You are not going to go through this alone."

Sherlock deduced her, but only found the words _loyal_ and _love_ falling off her. It was fascinating that such a person could provide such dissonance in his internal orchestra. She watched his eyes taking in her every feature, incandescent in a distressing world.

Raising to her tiptoes, they kissed one more. It seemed to assure them of the sincerity of her words.

John stood, hand wavering above the door handle. He had just been about to go and fetch his friend, when he'd seen them through the gap that had been left open.

John always thought that when he saw Sherlock with a romantic partner he would be repulsed, shocked, and highly amused… Like it had been with Janine.

But this wasn't like that.

John was moved.

For a moment, it was just Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

Two troubled souls in love.

It was bird song in a storm.

It was beautiful.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **The next update will be with you VERY soon, it's mostly written already! Parts were originally meant for this chapter, and it would have been FAR too long... It's a whopper, I promise you. Be prepared.**

 **Can't wait to hear your thoughts! See you at the next chapter. :-)**


	17. Into Battle

**Hello you wonderful people! Here we are with another update. This one is different to the rest, but very pivotal...**

 **Fasten yourselves in, it's going to be a bumpy ride.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

Baker Street was a world away. The small hearth was an oil painting. The laughter was old records. The clients blurred into a stream, one which formulated the existence of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had never felt so out of depth in his career.

Mycroft had always had an innate ability to involve his brother in cases that were beyond him, not intellectually, but beyond his interests. International crises were boring, yet Sherlock had ended up dismantling criminal networks for two years. Serving justice had been exciting, yet he had ended up killing. The thrill of the chase was levelled with _responsibility_. It wasn't in his nature to _care,_ yet people's potential suffering was his motivation to continue.

How on earth was he meant to do this, and not have Viola suffer?

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked out of his reverie and was relieved to see Molly there. How long had he been in his mind palace? Somehow, he had slipped away as he had held her in his arms. She was further now, brown eyes open… They reminded him of Baker Street, of home.

"She'll be so useful, you know that, don't you?" Molly could see trepidation on Sherlock's body, although she knew he'd never admit to it. "To the case, I mean… This is about her-"

"Yes, her knowledge may well be the vital factor which returns Mycroft to us and brings the bastards to justice." Sherlock's voice was flat, and he let her go. It was time to focus on Viola, to not be distracted by s _entiment._ Molly understood, of course, she did. "She better be."

"What do you mean?"

"Viola is a Holmes. Lord knows what she is capable of under stress like this." He drew a stilted breath, "Into battle, Molly Hooper."

Molly stood on her tiptoes, captured his lips briefly, then set back down. A steadfast determination had settled on her features. It was time.

"Into battle, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

 **10:06am.**

It was a bittersweet thing, to momentarily forget where you were. The half-asleep state, where you could float between the voids. For a moment, Viola could have been at her Nonna's house. The blankets were just as soft, the air just as cool. But gone was the light smell of wine, the gentle draft against her skin. The light around was dark as if she was in a cave.

Or underground.

Viola remembered.

She bolted upright.

An audible groan left her lips.

Viola was the lost traveller stuck in London, caught in a whirlwind of life she had never thought to encounter. Bleary-eyed, she fumbled for the mobile her mamma had left her. She hadn't been in touch.

Viola absently kept fidgeting, clicking the phone case off and back on, her hands drawing small patterns on it.

That was until her thumb grazed over a thin piece of card.

Head dropping downwards, her eyes grew in perplexion at the folded item. _Mamma must have put it there._ She gently lifted it out of the case.

 _It's worn, old, photographic paper._

She flipped it over.

For a moment, she swore her heart stopped.

Before her was a photograph of Sherlock and her mamma. The quality was terrible, yet it was them. It appeared to be in some form of bedroom, nineties band posters on a wall. A lone chemistry book lay strewn on the carpet. A couple of strangers mingled in the edges of the frame, wearing plaid jackets and ripped jeans. Sat on a bed, were her parents. Maria was sprawled out, her eyes dreary but content, staring at the camera from where her head lay on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock looked _gaunt;_ youthful, yet somehow older. His head was slightly angled away from the lens, intensely staring, as if analysing the people around him. One arm was outstretched, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke rising into the air.

First, Viola was moved… For some reason, entertaining the idea of her parent's relationship had never quite made sense. Like facts in a book. Seeing it in person was immeasurable. How long had her mamma had this?

Viola wondered if she had had it when she had returned to Italy. A strange emotion found her as she suddenly heard her younger self, pestering her mamma about _who_ her papa was. It had taken sixteen years for them to tell her. The answer had been so close all along.

Suddenly, the photograph felt heavy in her hands.

Why had it been left with her now? To remind Viola that she hadn't come from a broken home?

Honestly, she didn't know… She'd never understood her mamma's motivations for anything.

Viola dragged herself to her feet, and to her surprise found her clothes folded up on a small chair. _Who had done that?_ She flicked a light on, got dressed, refusing to acknowledge the bags under her eyes. Quietly, she poured herself a glass of water. Her eyes caught the photograph once more, and without thought, she secured it back in its place.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

* * *

 _Animals have an innate ability to sense danger. Trauma had altered the brain's amygdala, a staple of evolution for millennia. Animals reacted to frequencies outside of the human ear-shot when danger was imminent. Elephants moved to higher ground days before earthquakes, dogs expressed agitation, cows have lowered their milk supplies._

 _If animals were nearby, would they be running away?_

With every step Viola took, her instinct told her to run. Something in the air was amiss. A shiver traced up her spine, as if she was about to come to face with a ghost.

Why would Sherlock call her in the middle of an investigation?

Molly walked beside her, resolute. It did nothing to quell the dark sensation in Viola's stomach. The Pathologist feigned indifference, yet nerves fell from her like waves. As they rounded a corner into what was Mycroft's office, Viola was shocked to see it nearly abandoned, save for John, Agent Chen, and a woman she didn't recognise.

The Army Doctor looked uncomfortable, appearing to lean on one leg slightly too much. He tried to be neutral, but sympathy was there.

 _Sympathy?_

Viola swallowed as she placed together English words, "Has something happened to Sherlock? Where is he?"

John held a breath, "Sit down, Viola. He's coming."

It wasn't like John to speak so… _Professionally,_ to her. He was an emotional man, and over the week he'd only seen to her happiness. A question emerged on her tongue, but she couldn't translate it.

Relenting, she sat down. The dark walls that she thought were impressive when she'd arrived at this facility now felt suffocating. Nervously, her fingers tapped against her thighs.

A few moments later, Sherlock's stepped into the room. His face was calm, steady, yet there was a storm brewing on the edges of his body language. Viola saw him flick his eyes to Molly, and she returned a small nod.

Viola wished she was an elephant, fleeing to higher ground.

"Sherlock?" Viola asked, eyes wide beneath black curls.

 _Focus, Sherlock._

 _Be professional._

The detective professionally took the seat opposite her, placed his hands under his chin in a temple, and spoke plainly in Italian. "This lady here is Bapoto, she's going to translate our conversation for the witnesses."

" _Witnesses?"_ Viola analysed the woman, who had immediately started translating Sherlock's words into English. What was her accent- African? Viola wasn't used to picking up foreign accents on an English tongue.

"…Am I being interrogated?"

"Yes," Sherlock clarified, "It's a necessity."

Viola almost laughed out loud out at the absurdness. Her face upturned but Sherlock's cutting glance sent it spiralling back. It was replaced by a coldness. "I haven't done anything- what, oh God- Do you think _I'm_ involved? Sherlock-"

"Viola, it is imperative to this investigation that you remain calm." Sherlock paused, feeling the fear of his daughter's form vibrate onto him, "You are not going to be held accountable for the information I'm about to present."

Forcing a confident demeanour on herself, Viola levelled her father's gaze. In that moment, their similarities were exponentially clear. "What's happened?"

"We know who has kidnapped Mycroft."

Viola tilted her head a fraction, blue eyes narrowing, "…And what does that have to do with me?"

Sherlock's coolness fractured, just for a moment, as he tensed involuntarily. It was almost like he didn't wish to say the words.

The words hit her, like fire bursting through ice.

"Viola… It is in your best interest that you know that the individual we believe to have masterminded the operation to kidnap Mycroft, and-" Sherlock refocused, "Make _suggestions_ towards you… Is Matteo Conti."

Silence.

Sherlock watched her daughter like he would a criminal. Every single detail of reaction mapped out in his mind palace, providing further information. Information was good. _Information was safe._

 _Doubt fear disbelief horror shock confused confused confused-_

John saw Viola as a traumatised young woman, who had just had her worst fear reel its terrifying head. His heart pounded against his ribs.

Viola begin to mutter incoherently, the translator passing over a puzzled expression trying to decipher the young woman's words.

Molly stepped closer.

Before commencing this interrogation, Sherlock had spun countless reactions Viola could have to the news. He braced himself, wondering which route she'd take.

Eventually, the spluttering dissolved into a single question, "What the hell are you talking about?"

 _Denial._

Route number four.

"Matteo is in London, Viola. He's come with the purpose of 'obtaining' you back-"

"He's in _prison-"_

"I assure you, that isn't the case anymore."

For a moment, the two stared at each other, unaware of anything except the inexplicable force that was Matteo Conti in between them. Molly saw the way Sherlock's eyes flicked over his daughter's features desperately, deducing her until little stone remained unturned.

Viola suddenly sat taller, cursed, and the shocked expression became hateful. "This… This is a joke. What is this, some sort of experiment?" Viola spat in disbelief, "How is this going to get your brother back?"

Sherlock didn't flinch.

"It's not _funny_ … I told you about this in confidence, Sherlock."

"Given the fact that Matteo is currently threatening you, I believe this is now a matter of national security."

 _"Threatening me?"_

"Yes."

Viola's jaw dropped as if to say something, but words didn't come. Her brow knitted. Sherlock could practically hear the walls of protection starting to cave in around her. She looked so… Exposed. In that moment, Sherlock's stomach twisted. He didn't like it. A certain synapse in his brain called to offer protection, but logic suggested otherwise. Viola shared his genes, but she was still part of the case. Sherlock couldn't afford to be distracted by the _basal needs_ to comfort family, not right now.

 _Focus. Save Viola. Save Mycroft._

"Viola," His voice was thicker than expected, "I would not lie to you about this."

Her arms folded, blue eyes lingering purposefully. "You've got the wrong person… Matteo wouldn't kidnap anyone."

It was a factual statement. Sherlock's skin crawled. John and Molly met worried eyes as the translation met their ears. She didn't… She didn't want to protect him, did she?

Viola shrugged, "He is a... Damaged man, a dangerous one… But a kidnapper? No. Even, if you say, he is out of prison-" Her voice faltered on the last words, as she forced a wave of panic down, "He isn't capable of it."

Viola's eyes, the same as her father's, were seamless windows into the soul. Sherlock recognised the fear that didn't shift from her blue irises.

"We have gathered a multitude of evidence. It's indisputable. From voice stamps that match his arrest following your harassment charges, to CCTV, to the very dates coinciding with your arrival in England."

It took her a moment to get the words out, her voice low, "Show me."

So, they did.

Viola remained silent as evidence was brought forward, her eyes barely blinking, the blankness on her features jarring. The release documents from prison gaged no reaction, except her hands began to shake and she buried them under the table. The CCTV footage of him from the day before caused her to tense suddenly, and nod slightly, but no sound emerged…

Then, the broadcast was played.

It was Matteo instructing Mycroft behind the camera. The unmistakable lyric lilt of his voice, the softness she once likened to honey.

She turned chalk-white.

There was no doubt.

 _Matteo did this._

It was like a bomb went off-

 _He kidnapped an innocent man-_

-Burning through all her cells in a moment.

- _He's after me. He's going to get me. Ti sono mancata!_

Viola jolted to her feet. Molly moved- _Ti sono mancata-_ to her side.

The trembling spread to her arms, to her legs. Moisture scorched her cheeks, but she – _Ti sono-_ didn't sob. She – _mancata!-_ choked. Her head began to shake rapidly. No no _no no-_

Then words sounded, that poured petrol on the flames.

" _If you wish to save the country, then deliver the Anthropologist to us. …But don't expect to see her alive again."_

Her stomach dropped. An indecipherable tension pulled on her face.

Her legs moved, but she didn't feel it. They made three- four, paces, then they caved in, smacking against the hard floor. Frantically, her hands reached us for a small rubbish bin, and the sound of retching met their ears.

"Shit." John hissed.

Molly swept down to the girl's side and laid a hand on her back, soothing best she could.

John's attention was caught as Sherlock moved in his peripheral; the detective's elbows laid against the table, and his head fell into his hands. For most, this wouldn't be a strange gesture. But Sherlock wasn't _like this._ John could practically hear the internal voice of reason in Sherlock's head instructing him to keep it together.

"Easy, Viola" Molly assured, as the young woman started to sit upright. Viola sat still, for a tangible silence, arms over her knees. Then, her expression crumbled, and she began to sob. The quiet sound turned into guttural cries, between the murmuring of 'no', and Italian she didn't understand. Its broke Molly's heart.

John rubbed a weary hand through his hair. He didn't know what to do. What to say. If that was Rosie… _God,_ he felt ill at the image. John trod over to Sherlock purposefully, bent down, and spoke quietly to his ear. "Mate, you have to go her."

Sherlock didn't look over, "I can't be distracted by her emotions."

"She's your _daughter-"_

"John," Sherlock warned, "It is unwise to-"

The words fell short, as Molly helped Viola to her feet. The pathologist gestured for her to sit down, but Viola remained fixed, although swaying on her feet. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, her cheeks sodden, body seemingly limp. Her hands trembled incessantly. Viola looked almost as if she would combust.

"…How long have you known?" Viola's voice shook, it was a totally different tone from before.

Sherlock couldn't observe her. Deductions failed. "Viola-"

"How long," She susurrated, "Have you known?"

"The broadcast occurred when you were asleep."

Viola's expression became lethal. "…Don't lie to me."

"I'm not-"

"Not about the broadcast, Sherlock…" Hatred began to blossom, "Use your _brain_. I mean about Matteo."

Sherlock, momentarily shocked by her choice of words, sat straighter. His mouth suddenly felt incredibly dry. "A few hours. …Since before we travelled to Mycroft's house."

Viola's stomach gripped tight, her head falling as she felt nauseous. She gasped in pain at the sensation, one arm settling on her bruised rib. "You didn't," Her head didn't raise, "You didn't tell me."

"Of course not, I needed to organise the information. I hardly expected he'd go and threaten you on air to the nation." The words came out clinically, devoid of empathy.

"You… You _sat_ there in the car, and _lectured_ me on how to evade capture… On how to talk to a kidnapper long enough for them to keep me _alive._ All the while you knew-"

"Viola," Molly implored, "Please sit down-"

"No!" Viola shouted suddenly. Blazing blue eyes burned onto her father. "It's _my_ business, I deserved to know. You don't know me. You don't know Matteo. You don't have the right to retain that knowledge from me!"

"Viola Seraphina, I highly suggest you calm down before you give yourself a stress-induced stroke."

They stared at each other.

Father and daughter.

"How long have you suspected it?"

"Not long. Your mother told John that Matteo had been released from prison. John informed me, and the deductions from then were obvious."

Her jaw dropped, suddenly events clicked into place. Her mamma's strange words, the phone, the physical contact… It was never about Sherlock. It was about Matteo. For an incredulously long moment, Viola was silent.

"There were no signs, Viola. If there had been, I…" Sherlock sighed, "I would have stopped the world turning to stop him getting close to you."

A rock-hard coldness found her, and for a moment, Sherlock saw Mycroft in her. It was something he had never seen before. "Big words from a man who didn't know me a week ago."

"The time scale of our acquaintance does not-"

"Of course, it does." Viola carried herself back over to her seat, legs shaking incessantly. She sat, feigning a blasé look, "Ask your questions then, get it over with."

Agent Chen moved smoothly over and laid a recording device upon the table. Viola glared at it and forced a wave of sickness down. Agent Chen held the girl's eyes, and then pressed for it to begin recording.

Thus began the interrogation of Viola Seraphina Esposito.

"How long have you known Matteo Conti?"

"We met in 2009, when his family moved to San Gimignano."

Questions were fired without a mere flinch, and Viola answered every single one bluntly. Her hands shook, tears fell, yet her voice didn't waver. As the details of their relationship unfolded, John and Molly could only watch in interest. Yet their eyes kept straying to their friend, his mask of distance standing like the highest wall.

For twenty-three minutes, this remained steady. Then the tide began to shift, a storm began to raise on the seas.

"Viola, when did you and Matteo enter a sexual relationship?"

John inhaled tersely as the translation met his ears.

Viola tensed, suddenly feeling _incredibly_ violated. "…I don't see why this is relevant."

Sherlock grimaced, "Yes, you do."

"Don't claim to know what I-"

"Sex is a common motivator for crime. How many murders do you think would be avoided if sex _wasn't_ involved? People misinterpret the act as proclamations of sentiment. Thus, murders. Thus, work for me. Viola, suppose Matteo has been obsessed with you for years… Even before you were romantically involved. Imagine how he felt when you slept together. It's quite probable from that point he imagined he owned you." Viola shuffled in her seat at that, distractedly wiping away a tear, "Viola, we need to understand his obsession with you to understand his movements. It doesn't matter if your parentage lies with me or the Pope. Honestly, I don't _care_ who you've been involved with. But you must be clear. People's lives are at stake, _yours_ is at stake."

Viola's face was so torn it caused an obscure reaction in his brain. Molly seemed to sense it and moved to the girl's side. The pathologist lay a small hand on Viola's arm, "It's okay, you can talk to us."

Sherlock had never been more grateful for Molly Hooper in his life.

Viola's eyes fell to her trembling hands, her voice suddenly small, "April 2012… I think. Matteo got back from a trip to Ireland, and… He wanted to make things official."

Brown eyes met blue across the table, and they heard John's gasp. The dates weren't specific, but they didn't have to be. This was just after Sherlock had jumped from St Bart's. Just after Moriarty had died.

Viola glanced between the three, "W-What is it?" She asked in English.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock replied in Italian, "Were you comfortable with the nature of this relationship?"

"Yes… I mean, I was happy. We _were_ happy."

"What changed?"

Sherlock saw the doubt cloud over her intelligent eyes, but _why_? It as if she didn't want him to know.

Viola took a slow breath. "Around a year later… He started to get _possessive._ I didn't notice it, at first. Small things… He didn't want me to see my friends, got aggravated when my research cut into our time, and the like… Then one day, he-" Her bottom lip trembled, "Out of _nowhere_ … He encouraged me to try cocaine."

It was the only thing she'd said that gained an honest reaction from Sherlock. Obvious shock grasped him, and then it turned into disgust. It was if the air had been knocked out of him.

"…He offered you cocaine?"

"Yes… And he knew about me, my mum, and you. He knew that this was the thing that had kept you out of my life… That caused my mamma to not be around much as I grew up. Yet, he didn't care. _It'll be fun,_ he said, _like drifting in snow."_

Sherlock's hands were under the table, pressing so hard into his knees his knuckles turned white.

 _He's going to pay for this._

"I refused… He didn't take it well."

"What did he do?" Sherlock's voice had turned grave.

For an incredulously long moment, Viola stared at her father. He seemed about to jump off the edge into something deadly. She found herself unable to look at him, "He tried to force himself on me... He tried to use the needle," The words became quicker, tumbling out desperately, "It didn't work, I defended myself… It was like he changed into a completely different person. I broke it off, and then he started stalking me."

Before anyone could register it, Sherlock Holmes had stormed out of the room.

The door slammed shut.

Sherlock began to pace rapidly- _focus focus focus focus-_

"Sherlock?"

 _Focus focus FOCUS-_ A guttural sound exploded from the detective's throat, and he punched the closest wall. Suddenly, he was being pulled backwards. He fought frantically against the ministrations, pushing and-

"Sherlock, mate-"

It was John. Suddenly, he was forced back into reality. He spun round forcefully.

"I'm going to kill him, John. I'm going to destroy his-"

"Sherlock! Listen to me," Instructed John, explicitly more authoritative than usual, "I know this is shit, I know this hurts, but _goddammit_ you can't just walk out like that-"

"John-"

"She's your _daughter,_ for Christ's sake!" John reigned himself back in, although he remained ready to act, "She needs you. Please tell me this is helping you with the case."

Sherlock didn't respond.

John's lips formed into a line. "Right. Well. We'll go back in and find what you need. Don't make her relive any more of this than is necessary. This isn't about their history. This is about getting Mycroft back. About keeping her safe. You need to focus. We'll get Matteo, Sherlock… He'll get what he deserves. We're Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, and we'll solve this bloody case if it's the last thing we do."

* * *

Molly could have cried with relief when Sherlock and John returned to the office. Briefly, their eyes met, and his expression seemed to soften. It took all of his willpower not to go and take her hand, just to feel that ounce of _humanity._

Sherlock seemed… Almost himself. Face free from lines of stress. Molly cast her eyes to John, and he looked exhausted. It was a façade.

Sherlock bowed his head and placed his hands behind his back; Neatly hiding the slight bleeding from his knuckles on his right hand. "Thank you for your information, Viola. I do believe it is of importance to this investigation. I'm sorry, that me and your mother have failed you."

"Wait- what?"

"I perceive it as obvious that Matteo wouldn't have proposed offering you cocaine if it hadn't been for our negligence-"

"That's obvious."

"...I also am in understanding that your relationship with Matteo was under the influence of Jim Moriarty. Although I don't know when or how they met it appears this may have all been planned. Matteo probably met Moriarty before he died. That means he well could have abused you purely to get to me… You shouldn't have been a victim to that, Viola. For this, I am truly sorry."

Viola was floored _._ She couldn't find the words to express how she felt. _Who's Jim Moriarty?_

"Before I carry on with this investigation I need you to clarify a few points for me. I know you didn't have any indication that Matteo was in England but-"

Viola's eyes widened. Sherlock's words kept coming, but she didn't hear them. _The letter._ She hadn't mentioned it! God, why hadn't she told him?

"I knew he was in England!"

Sherlock completely stilled.

As the translated Italian met their ears, everyone else turned hard gazes onto her.

The oxygen vanished from the room.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock's eyes seemed to have darkened. Once again, Viola felt like a criminal on the stand.

Tears started to swell, a damn threatening to burst. "I meant to tell you, Sherlock- I did. A letter arrived at John's house, that morning before mamma arrived. I went to get it thinking John would appreciate me helping and-" Her voice broke, "I-It said _, 'Did you miss me?_ '… It was Matteo's handwriting. I thought it was a hoax. Something that mad woman who kidnapped me had done… I mean, I didn't know, but I've been too scared to say anything, and-"

"Stop babbling, Viola. Your point has been made."

Sherlock stepped forward, and placed his hands on the desk, practically leering over her. There was something dangerous in his expression. Her nerves dissolved to dust. "For clarity, you received a letter at the Watson residence, in Matteo's handwriting. This happened _before_ Mycroft had told John and Molly to keep secrets from me. You were terrified… Yet you didn't _say anything_."

Molly shot him a distinct look of warning.

Viola's brow's lifted in surprise, but then it shifted into anger. "I didn't trust you-"

"Oh, well, I guess if you don't _trust me_ you just let the psychopath get away with tormenting you? Do you? _Christ_ , Viola. You're meant to be _intelligent_. You realise _all_ of this could have been avoided if you had spoken out. John has an _infant_ in that house."

She bristled, "Don't you dare! I was _scared_. I didn't know any of you. Don't insinuate that I-"

"Single-handedly Viola you not 'trusting me' has resulted in the kidnapping of my brother, your life being threatened on live broadcast, and now you are a wager to the entire of England's security details being kept secret. For the sake of queen and country, I suggest you grow up and realise that sometimes your _privacy_ has to be exposed to preserve your existence."

Silence.

Viola suddenly felt a wave hit her as if she'd gone full circle… Just over a week ago, she had hated her father, then she'd come to respect him… Now, looking at those cold eyes, it was like looking at a stranger.

It was a bizarre thing, the resentment, because it forced confidence in her. She wiped her eyes, stood up trembling, and headed for the exit.

"Where do you think you're going?" Demanded the detective.

"To Matteo. I'm going to see him and sort this out before anyone gets hurt."

Three steps later and she was seized. She cried out as Agent Chen secured one arm and felt sick in shock as John secured the other.

"You don't have to do this, Viola-" John told her strongly.

She scarcely comprehended the English. Sherlock moved around to the front of her and acknowledged her, practically bemused, "You're an idiot. What do you think he's going to do if you do that?"

"He'll let Mycroft go. He's _obsessed_ with me, he'll do what I say-"

"He'll kill you-"

 _"Vaffanculo!"_ She shouted, "The psycho _loves me_. He's the only person who ever has. You're a _fool_ for believing he'll harm me-"

"He tried to _rape you_ -"

"So?! Get your security, call the blasted Queen of England! Let me see him and you can intervene. I can handle Matteo, I can hold him off so you can get your brother back. Matteo can go back in prison… And I can go back home and never have to see any of you again."

Viola was brave. An absolute force to be reckoned with when angry. Sherlock realised they were like two magnetic poles, both as forceful as the other.

"Viola Seraphina, you are _not_ risking your life. You're not allowed."

"I'm _not allowed?_ How old am I, five?! You have _no right_ to exert any control on me. You have not been in my life, you do _not_ get to talk to me like I'm your child-"

"You _are_ my child-"

"Mamma always told me to stay away from you. That you would cause me harm… To think I believed that you were _different_ … I'm offering to help!"

"And I'm saying no."

Viola fumed, voice dropping deathly low, "You're a _bastard_ , Sherlock Holmes."

They did not need a translator for those words. 'Bastardo' cut through the air like a dart in a board.

A sickly smile emerged on Sherlock's face, "That's what they all say." He turned his gaze to Agent Chen, addressing him in English, they spoke rapidly, and Viola couldn't follow.

"Viola, I'm placing you under house arrest."

"…You're _what?"_

Cold metal met the skin of her wrists behind her back, she struggled, she shouted, yet she heard the 'click'. The translator walked around her then, followed by Molly.

"Sorry, darlin'" The lady told her in English.

"You'll stay with Doctor Hooper. A team will be stationed to make sure you won't leave. You will remain there until my brother is retrieved. Until you are safe."

Viola tried her best to remain composed, she really did, but the damn broke again. The water was up to her chin. She was going to drown any moment.

"…You can't hold me under the laws of this country."

"Actually, I can." The detective, as if from nowhere, protruded a small maroon book. He held it out to her, revealing an identification page.

It was a British passport.

 _Her_ British passport?

 _Viola Seraphina Esposito…_

… _Holmes?_

 _Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes._

The world turned on it's axis.

Viola screamed, shouted, struggled, until she couldn't feel anymore. A void had opened, and she was plummeting downwards, unable to crawl back into the light. Her identity was gone. She could practically hear the chains, securing her to England's soil.

* * *

 **11:19am.**

"By all accounts, I believe that went rather well."

Molly blinked at Sherlock as if he had emerged from another planet. "You're joking."

"I don't joke, Molly." Sherlock rolled his shoulders, desperate to relieve tension, "Viola was never going to take the news well. But it was necessary. I understand Matteo so much more… I'll have him, so soon I can _feel_ it."

They were stood in the car parking area of the underground bunker, waiting for Viola to be brought to them, where a driver would escort them to Molly's flat for the foreseeable.

"...I don't want to be her prison guard, Sherlock."

The detective turned his eyes to Molly. He paced over to her, and stood close, blue eyes examining her, "I know. You're capable of a much more mentally demanding job than-"

"No… I don't want to control her. Because this isn't her fault. I know we need to keep her out of danger, but- I don't feel comfortable."

"I admit, it was a hasty decision. But an important one." A trace of a frown touched his lips, "Molly, by all accounts… I want you here. I _need_ you here. But I need to have Viola away with someone I can trust. You're that person. …I hate it, more than you can possibly know."

Molly's heart swelled as she took his hands. Sherlock quickly glanced around and was thankful no one was there.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid… Promise me you won't get killed."

"…I can't promise that."

Molly flinched.

"It's an impossible thing to promise. The conclusions of this case involve the possibility," He registered the horror in Molly's face, "Although the probability is small."

 _Sod it._

Molly gripped on his lapels, pushed herself to her tiptoes, and kissed him. It was unlike their kisses before. She claimed his heart as her own, desperate to feel complete, just for a moment. Sherlock responded earnestly, sighing against her lips, but she didn't relent. Her hands found his hair, his jaw, tracing every detail she could-

"Ahem!"

The couple jolted, immediately dropping their arms, and turned to see Lestrade.

Greg's arms were folded, his eyebrows raised, he smirked uncontrollably. "What is this, then? A last-minute snog before the world ends?"

"Piss off." Sherlock muttered back, silently grateful that Lestrade wasn't overreacting to seeing them together like he knew everyone would. It wasn't the time. He could almost here Lestrade badgering him with questions, but not right now.

Lestrade laughed, "Sorry. But your daughter is about to be brought up here and I hardly imagine _this_ is going to cheer her up."

Molly lowered her head, as a wave of guilt gripped her. Sherlock squeezed her shoulders in reassurance. "Molly."

She raised her head to look at him.

"Thank you."

"What for?"

 _For loving me, despite everything,_ he almost said. Yet he couldn't. Softly, he spoke, "For being you. This will be over before you know it. We'll be back at Baker Street, Mycroft will be acting like a grand old prick… And we'll be arguing over body parts."

"is that a promise?"

"If you deem it as such."

Footsteps alerted them to other's coming, so he let her go. As he watched Viola be placed into a car by security detail, and Molly joining them, he suddenly felt… afraid? Sherlock felt a breeze pass him despite being underground. Perhaps exhaustion was getting the better of him, but… It was coming from the East.

He had a terrible sensation that this was only the beginning.

* * *

 **11:49am.**

"Miss Esposito, we need to remove your handcuffs before you move from the vehicle, as to not draw attention to yourself in public. Is that clear?"

Viola scarcely heard a word. Her world was upside down. She stared through the blacked-out window, looking out where passers-by couldn't see in. It felt like a harsh metaphor.

The land was foreign, grey, and Victorian. She'd never felt so far from home.

As the car turned onto Molly's road, Viola recognised this as where it had all started. After her brief kidnapping, Eurus' men had dropped her on Molly's doorstep. The flat had felt like freedom, now… It was her prison.

The car came to a stop.

"Right, come on sunshine." A burly man cooed in a muddy accent, taking a gentle yet firm hold of Viola's arm.

Molly stepped out of the car, blinking against the sunlight. It felt like days since she had seen the sun, yet it had scarcely been around twelve hours. She watched Viola, limp, being helped out of the vehicle. The man never let go, she realised he wasn't going to. Walking a few paces ahead, Molly reached for her keys.

Blissfully unaware of the pandemonium that was about to explode on the street.

Viola Esposito was a strong woman. Yes, she was emotional, and yes, she still suffered from the repercussions of trauma. But, that was what defined her. Because she'd got through it and _survived._

Viola was the girl with two addicts for parents, who'd escaped an abusive relationship, and completed a degree in two years. Yes, Viola Seraphina Esposito was a _survivor._

The sunlight felt harsh against her skin, her blue eyes glittering against the rays. A strange sense of calm fell on her in that moment. Maybe it was shock.

No, that wasn't right.

Viola felt calm, because she knew she'd get through it. She'd fight this, like every other battle in her life. She was strong-

That's when saw it.

Not it- _them._

A double panelled window from the bottom floor of Molly's block of flats caught her eyes. Two people stood.

Matteo… Holding a gun to Mycroft's head.

Viola kept walking, agent gripping her arm.

Matteo grinned.

What did he expect her to do?

 _Panic?_

No one else saw it.

 _Am I going mad?_

Matteo shook his head 'no', as if he understood her thoughts. Grey eyes danced in the reflected light of the day.

Viola had four seconds to make a decision.

Scream. Ignore. Run.

If she screamed, everyone would know they were there. Matteo could shoot Mycroft, Molly, the guards. He would be discovered, but she would be the one who had sacrificed innocent people.

 _Cinque._

If she ignored it and kept walking... What if they had laid something dangerous in the flat? What if there were people waiting to kidnap her inside? They could harm Molly, Mycroft, the guards…

 _Quattro._

If she ran, there was a large possibility she wouldn't get far. The men by her side were _trained_ for this. But Matteo would probably not expect it. He could still hurt Mycroft, Molly, the guards… But wouldn't he rather go after her? Would it separate him from Mycroft? She needed to get him away. She could get through to him. Why couldn't Sherlock see that?

 _Tre._

Her heart started to pound. Adrenaline raised from the tarmac and up around her body. Every fraction of a second felt like a minute. The world slowed down. It was obvious.

….She had to run.

 _Duo._

Viola Esposito was a survivor.

She looked Matteo straight in the eye and winked.

 _Fatti sotto, stronzo._

She slid her foot against the pavement and fell. The security agent followed but didn't lose his balance. He held out a hand to her.

 ** _Uno!_**

Viola jumped up with such ferocity the agent lost his grip. She didn't think. She ran. Blood was pounding in her ears. Were the agents close? She didn't know. She daren't look. She ran and _ran and ran- puoi farcela!_

"Viola!" Molly screamed, taking off after her.

 _SMASH!_

The window exploded. Matteo jumped through it. Shock hit Molly so hard she froze. One agent had disappeared on Viola's trail. The other grabbed Molly and pushed her behind him.

"Doctor Hooper!"

The whole world vanished around her.

It was Mycroft.

The politician was trying to desperately climb through the window. His suit was cut, bruises over his jaw and large cut on his head. Matteo tore his gaze from Viola to the man, absolute insanity grating his features.

The security agent sprinted towards Mycroft.

Matteo pulled out his gun.

Molly cried out-

 _BANG._

The agent fell to the ground with a shout. Instinct taking over, Molly scrambled over to him, falling to her knees and immediately pressing down on the wound. Matteo didn't look back, he stormed over, manhandled the politician through the window, and dragged him into the back of a car. The vehicle screeched as it pulled out onto the street.

Frantically, Molly looked around. Viola was gone – simply gone – into London's urban jungle.

It was the last they'd see of Viola Esposito for five days.

* * *

 **Well well well... Bet none of you saw this coming.** **We are barrelling towards the climax point now. The game is on!**

 **Can't wait to hear your thoughts. Thank you so much for your support! :-)**

 **See you at the next one...**


	18. The Anthropologist and Robin Hood

**AN ~ Hello dearest readers! I would just like to thank you all for the support for this story, from guests and active users alike. It truly is my motivation and muse!** **Apologies for the wait, but I think the next few are going to arrive more frequently. :-)**

 **Settle in, grab a cuppa and sit back, you're in for a ride...**

* * *

 **11:50am.**

 _Scappare!_

Viola ran. One foot in front of the other. She didn't feel the tarmac meeting her feet, didn't recognise the wind blowing through her hair, she didn't turn back, didn't look-

 _Non fermati!_

Adrenaline spiralled through her limbs, a flood bursting dams encompassing all in its path. _Non fermati, non fermati!_

 _BANG._

It was like a cannon had been shot, ripping against the water's harsh tide. Viola nearly tripped, legs buckling as the sound waves shook her. But she didn't fall. She kept moving. She heard shouting. Heard a vehicle squeal as it dragged from the pavement.

Viola dipped in between two buildings, submerging within the shadows.

Viola's mind ran rampantly. Her breathing was coming in short bursts, audible, unrelenting. Suddenly, she was reminded of her bruised rib. The reason she was finding it hard to breathe.

 _God, it hurt._

Groaning, Viola moved one hand to grip her side, the other gripping onto a granite wall.

 _Matteo is after you. The agents are coming. Soon, all of England will be looking. You need to move. Change your identity. Keep moving._

The voice was Sherlock's, baritone cutting and demanding.

Though she cursed herself at using him as the voice of reason, she didn't have time to ponder it. Her spine tingled with the pursuit of people after her; Special Agents, her papa, and a psychopath. Nerves screaming, she pushed herself away from the wall and pushed ahead.

The red and blue beacon of the nearby underground station was a blessing.

Viola pounded down the stairs, non-flinching as the thick air and dusted walls engulfed her.

 _Andare avanti._

Viola came to a stop in the middle of a spherical space. There was an obstacle. The barriers. _Stupid_ machines that would draw everyone closer. She didn't have a- _what was it? An Oyster card?_ Viola _had_ owned one; she practically saw it on John's coffee table and screamed inwardly. Blue eyes fixated on the commuters at the machines. She didn't have money. She didn't have _anything._

 _Use your instinct, Viola,_ Sherlock's voice instructed.

Viola saw a young man enter down the steps.

 _Don't think._

An intense rush hit her as she saw the card balanced in his hand.

 _Go._

Swiftly, she ran towards him. "Ahh hello!" A melodic tone cooed happily. She threw her arms around him.

"Err-" The man spluttered.

Viola slipped the card from his fingers. "Thank you."

A moment later, she vanished beyond the barrier. Obstacle conquered. She scarcely heard the young man begin to shout as the barrier closed behind her.

Before she knew it, she was jumping within the steel encasement that was a Tube. The train hummed calmly as it moved from the tracks.

 _Change your identity._

 _Do it quickly._

Viola didn't know how long she had. A minute- Two? Frantically, she pushed through the carriages, drawing beguiled looks from tried Londoners and excited tourists. A woman caught her attention. A similar build. Baggy clothes. _Perfetto._

"I need you to take-" _Dio, what was the English?!_ "Change clothing!"

"You talking to me?"

"Yes! Change… Clothing!" Viola gestured wildly to her clothes. Kicked a shoe off. And another.

The woman stood, judgement burning, "Excuse me!"

Viola grabbed her.

A heavy man stood to intervene.

"Let go of me!" The woman shouted.

" _Please!"_ Viola begged. Time was fleeting. " _Aiuto…_ Help me!"

It was a middle-aged tanned woman who glanced at the girl, levelled with maturity. "Are you in trouble?"

Viola nodded manically. The lady's expression was _understanding; she_ turned to the young woman. "Help her. Do it now."

The blonde girl relented in ger grasp and nodded. Viola didn't see how frenzied she was, she couldn't see the starkness of her skin, the tears running down her cheeks. She embodied desperation.

Quickly, clothes were swapped. Commuters gasping when Viola lifted her top and saw bandages securing her ribs beneath her bra. Pulling the blonde's hoodie over her head, the tube pulled to a stop.

"Thank you!" Viola scarcely managed, before disappearing out of the tube.

The urban jungle welcomed her with open arms.

* * *

 **12:01pm.**

John rubbed his hands blearily, blinking with force to extradite the exhaustion from his body to no avail. He tiredly watched his friend expel deduction and deduction, knocking theory after theory with the focus of an assassin in target practise.

Sherlock was on the precipice of succeeding.

Or so John thought.

The door was forced open. Agent Freya burst in.

Sherlock knew something was wrong in a single look. "What is it?"

"You recall that contingency plan we needed if anything was to go wrong? …I think we're going to need it."

Sherlock didn't flinch. "Where's Matteo put Mycroft on display?"

Freya winced under the harsh intelligent gaze, it cut into her like a blade, "Doctor Hooper's flat. There's been an incident."

In Sherlock's mind palace, a floor caved in. Yet his face didn't budge. "They escaped."

"Yes. Mycroft was bundled into the back of a Fiat van and driven away. Agent Jamal has been shot, Agent Lloyd has-"

"Been shot? What about Doctor Hooper?"

"Seeing to his injuries, sir."

"And Viola?"

Freya hesitated. In that moment, Sherlock understood the words before he heard them. They lit up in his peripheral, glowing with an acidic ferocity.

"She's gone, sir."

* * *

 **12:27pm.**

Viola ran through the maze of London, ever-changing with as much vivacity as a beating heart. How long had it been? She had changed her clothes twice. Once with an elderly lady in a public toilet, and again after swiping clothes from a shop called Oxfam.

As Viola pounded down for another tube, horror struck her.

 _Severe Delays… Service Closed._

All the tube lines were down.

Locals and tourists alike barked into phones and at each other at the inconvenience.

It was a trap.

The Agents knew… Sherlock knew, and they were coming for her.

Panic grabbed her with such a force she almost doubled over. It was hot, acidic, sickly.

 _Respirare._

Viola turned on her heel and ran back into the sunlight. She didn't feel the hot liquid trail paths down her face.

 _Dio, che cosa ho fatto?_

Paranoia raised like electricity. Anyone who caught her eyes caused a molten pit of fear. She could practically hear Matteo laughing, the sweet tenor timbre mixed with madness- Viola went cold.

Her feet drove her to a dead end. An alleyway opened to the Thames. Worn silver railings stood to the height of her waist. Viola gripped the railings, blinking at the sun's rays bouncing on the water. Swiftly, she turned back. Her whole body throbbed.

She heard sirens.

The dam broke.

A tremor swept through every cell in her body, and sobs exploded. Every single moment leading up to this point from the day replayed rapidly, and it suddenly hit her what she had done.

Why had she run? It was to separate Matteo and Mycroft. But it hadn't worked- Matteo wasn't here. He didn't know where she was. If he couldn't find her, if no one could, what would happen?

Haphazardly, her fingers reached down past an oversized jumper she wore and pulled out her mobile from her bra.

Viola wanted to go home.

Fingers stumbling, she called her mamma.

It took four chimes to be answered. Viola's body sagged with relief against the cold metal.

' _Viola, hello. Are you-'_

The young woman gripped the mobile with both hands to steady the shaking, "Mamma-"

'… _What's happened? Are you crying?'_

Tears fell down her cheeks, marking the hem of the dark jumper she wore. "Mamma… I can't do this. _I want nonna_."

Her voice sounded almost childlike, drained from the energy and precision she usually carried.

' _Viola, where are you? What's happened?'_

"You didn't tell me- why didn't you tell me?" Gasped Viola, her back slowly sliding down the railings as her legs gave way. Her lower half contacted the cool ground. "You didn't tell me that Matteo is out of prison-"

' _Viola tell me what's going on! Did Sherlock tell you?'_

"Why didn't you tell me?"

'… _God, Viola …Are you safe?"_

Viola stared at her surroundings, heard the sirens, heard her heart pounding against her ribs. A lump in her throat throbbed violently. After a few steadying breaths, she cracked out a single word.

"…No."

Suddenly, she was thwarted with questions. Viola scarcely heard them. Her mamma was practically manic. The hope for reassurance was quashed. Viola had never heard her sound so discombobulated.

' _Where are you, Viola… I'll get you home. I'll fly to England. Stay where you are and-'_

"You can't… I have to see this through."

' _See what through? Viola-'_

"M-Matteo wants me, mamma." Her voice broke, "I need to stop him doing something stupid. I'm the only one he'll listen to. But I don't know where he is… I've ran, and I've been an idiot and- …Mamma, I _don't know_ where I am."

' _You do not go near that man do you understand? Christ, Viola! What do you think you're doing? Where's Sherlock now-'_

"H-He tried to arrest me-"

' _He what?!"_

"Mamma _please_ … He doesn't want me going to Matteo. He tried to stop me. But I _know_ I'm right and I have to-"

' _No. No don't you dare-'_

Viola's face contorted in frustration. "It doesn't matter what I say… You and Sherlock will _never_ be on my side!"

' _I don't understand-'_

"I have to go-"

' _No- No! Viola stay on the phone. Don't go.'_

Viola let out a choked sob, creasing her eyes shut. "…I'm scared, mamma."

' _Listen, Viola. You stay where you are. I'll call Sherlock, he'll find you and-"_

"No! Haven't you been listening? I can't go back to him… I don't want to. He's changed my passport… He's added Holmes on my name… You were right. He is a sociopath. I need to do this on my own."

There was another silence on the end of the phone.

'… _Viola, I'm leaving work now. I'm going to fly out. Get to Heathrow for 8pm tonight and I'll take you home. Don't think about Matteo. About Sherlock. None of it. Just hang on… I'm coming for you, alright?'_

Viola nodded numbly, relief gripping her as she finally began to accept the possibility of a way out.

' _Do you have your original passport on you?'_

"No."

' _Right. Well I'll call Mycroft now and arrange for…"_

The words drifted after that. Forcefully, the image of Viola's uncle Mycroft presented itself in her subconscious. Him on the video that was broadcasted. His cold fear, as he had stood in that window… Was she capable of abandoning him? The strange politician had an incalculable influence in the country. He had been… Tolerable, when they met. His steely eyes watched her with hooked interest, an expression she recognised as her own. He feigned prosperity, but the sentiment was clear as day. Mycroft had been kind to her, in what she imagined, was his own way. Mycroft Holmes cared about her enough to let Matteo go through with his plans… Biding time so Sherlock could resolve the situation without her sacrifice. He was powerful enough, clever enough, to engage a method of escape. It was… Selfless.

Mycroft would turn the world's axis to protect his family.

She couldn't abandon him.

'… _Viola, are you there? Can you hear me?'_

"Yes, ah-" Viola cleared her throat, forcing herself back into the present, "I can't go home, mamma."

The babbled tones of begging cut through the speaker.

Shakily, Viola wiped her eyes of tears, the last she intended to shed. She was a warrior. A survivor. And although she would deign it horrifying to admit it… A Holmes.

Determination settled within her bones. She had to protect her family.

Tilting her head to the sky, a lone ray of sunlight hit her face. Viola closed her eyes, took a steadying breath, and spoke calmly. "Sorry, mamma."

She terminated the call. Pushed herself to her feet, ignoring her rib's protestations, and turned to the water's edge. Biting her lip, she pondered for a moment, then pulled apart the phone case, removing the photograph of her parents. She placed it in her pocket carefully. Then, after a single moment of hesitation, in which it felt like every skyscraper was watching with silvery eyes, she reached back and tossed her mobile into the Thames.

* * *

 **12:38pm.**

Blue lights spun across the face of Molly Hooper. They danced with such frivolity it could have portrayed joy. But the pathologist was forlorn. She stood, numb, watching the agent being into the ambulance. Molly didn't even know his name.

Brown eyes cast down to her clothes. Garish copper stains now decorated them, extending to the pale skin of her forearms, to her hands.

A small crowd of neighbours had gathered. Mr Hussain, Molly's neighbour wrapped his arms around Molly's shoulders and spoke to her reassuringly.

A blacked-out car swooped onto the street. A mere moment later, the engine stopped, and Sherlock Holmes burst from the car. John emerged from the other side, eyes growing in surprise but also understanding as the detective made a beeline for the pathologist.

A second car arrived, and a plethora of agents scrambled efficiently out, immediately surveying the crime scene.

Amongst the murmurs of interest, John heard comments of ' _It's Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson'._ His expression tightened considerably. Drawing attention would not be good. Not now the situation had become so dire.

Sherlock hadn't anticipated interacting with Molly so desperately. His daughter was missing and there was an entire crime scene to assess. His synapses ordered him to focus, to work, to not be distracted. But the moment he had seen her, everything had frozen. Molly was his piece of humanity. It was an unfortunate situation, he rationalised, yet he understood he wouldn't be able to focus without ascertaining knowledge that she was alright.

 _Alright, what a mediocre phrase in turmoil such as this,_ Mycroft's voice sneered.

With determination, Sherlock reached her. "Molly-"

"Mr Holmes," The man who was comforting Molly cut in, "Don't come in and make this worse with harsh words. I know you. Going in and out of this building. Molly has been through a traumatic experi-"

"I'm perfectly capable of managing Doctor Hooper, thank you." Sherlock icily replied, flashing an emotionless smile.

Chagrined, the man huffed, but moved aside. The urgency in the detective's eyes felt threatening.

"Molly are you alright?"

Brown eyes raised to meet his, fear tracing every crevice of the mahogany irises. Sherlock's face remained neutral. Molly blinked at him, nervous, "…Viola escaped-"

"I'm aware." He replied too quickly, "It's not-"

"But Mycroft, I could have saved Mycroft- I'm sorry I've let you down and-"

"Don't be an idiot, Molly." Admonished the detective, yet his tone wasn't cold. "You saved a man's life. _That's_ what matters."

"No… No, I should-"

"Don't finish that sentence, it would be a complete waste of energy. I need you to focus. I need you to-"

"Sherlock," John called, rushing over, "Listen, mate, not here. People are taking photos. The press is probably going to come. This," His hands waved, "… _Personal stuff_ can't be what they see right now."

Like a switch was flicked, the detective stood straight, and let go of Molly's hands. "Right. Of course. John, escort Doctor Hooper back to her flat. She will be interviewed there. I need to work on more important matters."

John nodded, offering an arm around Molly's shoulders, "…Of course. Come on Molly."

Molly looked between the two men, saw the understanding look passing between them, and caught on. It was a farce; his distance was a ploy to protect her. Sentiment was a defect found on the losing side, perhaps Sherlock had to focus on that now to keep her safe. -

"Sherlock." Molly turned, seeing Sherlock was staring at her, brow slightly drawn in concentration.

 _He looked exhausted._

"Are you… Are you okay?"

Sherlock swallowed before confidence blossomed over him. Overtly simple, yet complex as the ocean. "The girl doesn't know this city. She won't get far."

The indifference in his tone made Molly's stomach twist with uncertainty. With a flourish of his Belstaff coat, the detective pivoted and approached the crime scene.

John urged them to leave, and they did. Molly's eyes focused on her feet, focused on a small spattering of blood on one of her shoes. "John…"

"No, he isn't okay."

Molly suddenly realised that Sherlock hadn't spoken a single personal word about Viola's disappearance.

* * *

 **13:24pm**

 _The best way to remain hidden is in plain sight. Merge in with the invisible. Don't be abnormal. Blend in._

Once again, the voice of reason happened to be Viola's papas. Although she hated it, it focused her. It was astounding how much the man had influenced her in such a small space of time. Sky blue eyes inquisitively scanned the activity playing out around her on London's streets; passers-by glued to mobiles, the gathering of elderly ladies outside a coffee shop, black taxi's dotting the roads. Where could she start? If she didn't assume a position soon, she would be found. Her single chance to form a plan to stop Matteo would be thwarted before it began.

A small clump of people stood outside a large glass window caught her attention, and she cast an eye their way. Viola froze. Her lips parted. It took every cell in her body not to react.

It was an electronics shop of some sort, displaying various devices in the window. Playing was the video of Mycroft that Matteo had forcefully broadcasted. A red banner ran beneath the screen.

' _MYSTERY MAN THREATENS ENGLAND UNDER HOSTAGE'_

The screen changed, and a vaguely familiar location was shown. Charcoal buildings with ornate black doors. A dark blonde lady, one Viola recognised as the Prime Minister, although she couldn't recall her name, stood speaking on a podium. Subtitles ran beneath her, but it was too quick for Viola to translate. From what she could gage, they were claiming no responsibility, that Charles Emile didn't exist…

 _Which is true, except the truth is much more severe,_ thought Viola gravely.

"Terrible business, 'init. Peak."

Viola jumped at the voice, sweeping around to blink at the glazed-eyed man behind her. She prepared to bolt.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you, missus." The man smirked, regarding her with an aloof arrogance.

Bristling, Viola made to leave again- _the conniving-_

"D'ya want me to 'elp you or not?"

"Sorry?" The anthropologist turned helplessly, glaring. She could have laughed out loud at the sorry state of the man. "Help _me?"_

"Mm," The said man hummed, regarding her with a smug knowing eye, "You've changed your clothes three times in't past 'our, been runnin' despite an injury to your rib, been cryin'… Buckets." He had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows at her, "Not slept properly, very 'hungry. Got no money, don't know where you're at… Croatian. Foreign 'lass terrified runnin' around London… It's like an action comic."

Affronted, Viola cursed under her breath as she was routed to the spot in shock. _Was that the… Deduction thing? How many people could do that?_ Viola knew she had to run. This was a trap. Yet she didn't move.

The strange man suddenly smirked, and lifted a sleeping bag like a prized possession, "Y' wanna share this?"

"What?"

His lips downturned, "Well… y'wanna blend in. I'm tryin' to 'elp you."

Viola's heart began to race rapidly, distrust evident, "Why would you help me?"

"Cause it's obvious the coppers are after you-"

"-…Police?"

"That's the one. I'm the best at hidin' from them. Trust me… No one hides better than the 'omeless."

 _Ah._ Viola in took a short breath, analysing the man's worn tracksuit bottoms and black hooded jacket, greasy hair protruding from beneath the hood. The smell of alcohol lingered on him. Although distrust told her to stay alone, she was held to being completely aware that she had no means of navigating this country on her own. She needed in ally. It was risky, but possibly, the only chance she was going to get.

Sharply, she snatched the sleeping bag, almost sneering at the man's disgruntled expression, "Where can we go?"

To Viola's frustration, he appeared impressed. "Follow me, missus. I know where the cameras won't look. Place is full of blind spots it is."

The homeless man suddenly pivoted on his heel and turned down a street between two shops, Viola scurrying behind him until she met his side.

"You got it wrong." Offered Viola quietly, staring ahead as they travelled.

"What is that then?"

"I'm Italian… Not Croatian."

His blue eyes, duller to hers, flashed with annoyance. "I always miss somethin'"

"You," She thought over the word, "See well. I mean, erm- observe. The skill is good."

"Learned from the best." Mused the man.

Viola regarded him interestedly, "What's your name?"

He turned to look at her then, gazing at her curiously, as if deciding whether to trust her. It was his unsureness that convinced Viola he wasn't, in fact, part of any of this. He clearly knew nothing about her.

After a beat, he replied with an air of pride, "Wiggins. Billy Wiggins. The Wigs. The Robin 'Ood of London City I am."

Viola nodded, slightly puzzled at how the irregular man described himself. Yet, she found herself feeling safer. "My name is Seraphina."

Off they went, travelling like ghosts in the mist. The Anthropologist and Robin Hood.

* * *

 **14:13pm.**

John wasn't a genius. This was a fact he could attest to at any given moment in his life. At school, he had never been the brightest, easily distracted from academics at the sight of a pretty girl or a way to cause mischief. Growing up, army discipline had grounded him. His intelligence may not have been the best, but hell, he worked hard and was exceptionally good at his job. Living with Sherlock Holmes had both made him the dumbest he'd ever been in comparison, but also the sharpest, and the best version of himself he could have been. It was _life experience,_ that transformed him into a soldier into _John Watson._

John Watson didn't have to be a genius to see that Sherlock Holmes was nearing breaking point.

It was like waiting for branch to snap.

John Watson was terrified for Sherlock Holmes.

Back in the bunker, they had spent three hours now reviewing security footage. They could track Viola for a time around Tube stations. There were a couple of time gaps in which they lost her and found her again.

Up until an hour ago, where she had completely disappeared.

Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his unruly curls, eyes piercing the multiple monitors around him. "This is ridiculous. Viola can't have just _vanished._ She isn't Houdini… Matteo could have her." His face was a gaunt mask.

"He can't have. They've headed North with Mycroft. Not in the same direction as her." Agent Chen commented succinctly.

"Yes, but you _don't know_ where Mycroft is either, so you can't prove that." Shot back the detective, consonants imploding with bite. Icy eyes stared at the monitors as if they were suspects, "It's as if she _knows_ where the cameras can't see."

"If we have assessed all possible angles, then perhaps it's a possibility?" Lestrade offered, "The options remaining, although improbable, must be the truth."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't be ridiculous, Graham." His hands pressed into a temple under his chin, "How could she know where she can't be seen…"

"Sherlock, sir," Agent Chen turned to face him, arms folded, "As much as we would like to find your daughter need I remind you we are all hired by Mycroft Holmes, and our priority _is_ Mycroft Holmes."

The detective's expression became lethal.

Lestrade pushed himself off a wall, hands placating, "That's his daughter you're talking about, piss off."

"She's also Mycroft's niece, which makes her family. Which makes her priority as far as Mycroft Holmes would be concerned." Snapped John irately.

Agent Chen held his breath, considering the unhinged manner of the men in front of him, and sighed. Professionalism slipped off him, just for a moment, and his palms landed on a table in front of him. "Listen," He started deliberately, "This has the potential of being a good thing."

"A good thing?" Reiterated John sarcastically, "Have you heard yourself? A twenty-one-year-old foreign girl is wandering the streets of London with a madman after her, and you have the audacity to call it a _good thing_? Viola is hardly capable of managing on her own. She's clueless, attractive, the exact sort of person any predator could target, never mind Matteo Conti and his Moriarty impersonators-"

"You think she's attractive?" Sherlock blinked several times.

"-Not the time, mate!" John hissed, "She is as important to this investigation as Mycroft, if not more so. She is the key to getting Mycroft back. You're full of shit to even think otherwise."

"I _wasn't_ going to contend otherwise, Doctor Watson." Agent Chen retorted smoothly, "Do understand me, this suggestion I'm about to make is a perilous one but one I perceive could be very useful. We cannot go to the press with Mycroft's identity, we cannot issue a public search. The outcry from civilians would far outweigh the productivity of our teams. However," He began to pace slowly, hands occasionally raising and falling to issue his points, "We can go public about Viola. We can hold a missing person's conference, the works. Get her face on the news, on Twitter, in the papers. A hundred-thousand eyes are better than our few hundred. She will slip up. We can find her this way, draw her out… Find Matteo, bring back Mycroft."

Lestrade placed his palms on his hips and turned his gaze to Sherlock. The detective looked pale, drained… The thrill of the chase had disappeared. Silently, he wondered how long he would hold on. "Sherlock, how do you feel about going public about having a daughter?"

An obstinate silence gripped the room.

Inside Sherlock's mind, the mind palace was getting darker. The cogs had been whirring so fast, for so long, his intuition was slipping. His resolve was slipping. He heard the voices of his family, of John, of Molly's orchestra, but couldn't find where he was safe. The responsibility was painful, spreading like a cancer. Sherlock was a sociopath. This wasn't for him.

Could he really go public about a daughter he had only just discovered existed?

The thought turned his stomach. For once, rationality fell short, and instinct was his focus for survival.

"No," He responded thickly, "No, I will not do that."

John saw Sherlock's hands balled into tight fists, trembling just enough. "Sherlock, mate, I think you need to think this though… This realistically is the best way of finding her quickly. The press… It could draw Matteo out, too."

"But then what?" Sherlock inwardly scolded himself for the mere _questioning_ tone in his voice, "John, it is my fault her life has been forced into this conjuncture. If I do this… The damage will be irretrievable. Any job she puts herself forward for, any research she conducts, they'll consider her as the woman who unintentionally nearly toppled all of England's security information due to a madman, before thinking of who she is for herself. If one day I find another criminal after me, and I undoubtedly will, then she will be under threat. Always. I can't have her existence be limited because of my involvement with her. I will not."

Tension simmered in the air as the words ended. Sherlock tensed, shocked at his own admission. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm, flinched, but then saw it was John's. This, John would recall, would be the defining moment when he finally came to terms with Sherlock Holmes' heart. For a man who'd been beaten and plagued throughout his entire life, he had been sculpted into a selfless human being. Sherlock as he knew him would have jumped at this opportunity. But protecting Viola's future like this… It was noble.

Agent Chen let out a small huff of air, "Alright then, sir. But we must do something. The benefits of this operation are so pivotal it would be worthless not to do it… I propose we go forward with the plan but give her a false identity."

Lestrade let out a cold laugh, "Nope. That's not gonna happen."

"Sorry?"

"If this country finds out that the police lied about the identity of a vulnerable person, there will be an uproar. Surely that's obvious?"

"Detective Inspector, in our line of work-"

"-This _isn't_ your line of work if you want to use the police, especially the missing persons bureau." Chastised Lestrade flatly, "Sherlock, tell the man-"

"Do it." Cut in Sherlock.

Lestrade's jaw dropped, tone warning, "No, Sherlock. Don't be a cock. We can't-"

The detective rattled of cutting words rapidly, "I don't care about the state of the police. This is the safest way to go around this. For once, this compromise might work." He clasped his hands behind his back, "Agent Chen, arrange what's necessary. We will move ahead with this if she isn't found in the next twelve hours."

Suddenly, the door was pushed open. Anthea entered the room.

Anthea smiled grimly, holding out a phone towards Sherlock, "It's for you."

Instinctively, Sherlock began to deduce her. Words fell off her in waves.

Anthea, used to being under the scrutinising gaze of the Holmes', didn't flinch. "She's been on the phone to the foreign office for hours trying to get through. She's _very_ concerned."

Within a flash, Sherlock was over and taking the mobile. He knew who it was. Determination grabbed him violently.

"Maria. What is it? What's happened?"

This was the tipping point for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 **Nine hours later… 23:39pm.**

Sleep was a rare thing when the world didn't stop turning. Molly didn't know how or when she had fallen asleep, yet it had been blissful to lay on the surface of the abyss. Her consciousness travelled in a stream, faster and slower, back and forth and back and forth… Like a boat approaching a lighthouse in a storm, Molly raised into the land of living. Brow furrowing, she rolled onto her back, the storm clearing.

Except, it wasn't a storm that forced her awake.

It was music.

Upon that realisation, Molly blinked, pushing herself upright. She sat in darkness, listening to the melancholy tones resonating through her flat. The emotion, vibrato and phrasing she recognised… It was Sherlock. It was the violin.

 _Thank God he's here._

Relief swamped the pathologist as she pushed herself from her bed, quickly making her way to her bedroom door. She had fallen asleep fully clothed. Just as her hand reached for the handle, she stopped. Why was he here? …Was the case over? Was Mycroft hurt? Was Viola safe? Anxiety prickled in the pathologist's body. Molly swallowed, _be brave, he needs you by his side. No matter what._

Without further thought, she stepped through the door. _Into battle,_ her internal voice echoed.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she moved through her small landing into the living room, and her heart caught in her throat as she laid eyes on the source of the music.

Sherlock stood, eyes closed, playing the violin with such flair as a virtuoso. The music was bipolar, yet beautiful, transcending the void between that which could not be communicated by words. The detective looked exhausted, worn… Pained. Every movement seemed to take a whole world of energy. As the music flourished and developed, Molly found herself unable to move, unable to breathe. It was… Exposed. She had never seen him like this not ever. Was this… Fear?

The music twisted higher and higher, vibrating with fiercer energy with every stroke. As it descended into a climax, the world seemed to stop turning.

The last note sang with desperation, brought off dramatically. The detective's bowing arm remained wielded in the air, trembling. A low breath fell from the detective, his shoulders sagged, and the instrument slipped from its place against his chin. His face caught a ray of light from a street lamp from a window.

A single tear reflected against its silvery rays.

Molly didn't feel herself moving, yet her feet carried her forward. She uttered no sound. She reached up, gently taking both the bow and the instrument from his hands. Molly placed them on her settee, faced him once more. After a moment, she stretched her small arms around his middle, and pulled him against her. Her head pressing against his chest.

She heard a small sigh and felt arms coming to wrap around her.

They remained silent for a very long time.

When he finally let her go, Molly glanced up to find his blue eyes open and analysing her. The sight caused her to smile, despite the world telling her not to. She wondered what to say, and decided for now, nothing would be just fine. She guided him into the kitchen, sat him down, and three minutes later they sat between two cups of peppermint tea and some toast. Like they had when all this had begun.

Sherlock's words were not what she expected, "That violin isn't mine."

Molly thumbed the edges of her mug absently, "…I don't understand?"

"It once owned to Napoleon Bonaparte… Eurus sent it to me. I never told you."

Molly didn't know what to say. Her tired brain struggled to find one question out of the plethora.

Sherlock held her eyes for a moment. "I apologise for intruding."

"What? Sherlock… You've broken into this flat countless of times." She paused, "I just feel sorry for the neighbours having your violin playing in the middle of the night."

Blue eyes met brown, and after a moment, they both snickered. God, Molly was happy to see that smile.

After it teetered off into quiet, Molly shifted in her seat, "What's happened?"

"…I've been temporarily forced from the investigation."

"…What? Sherlock-"

"I may have lashed out."

"You _may_ have lashed out?"

"…I insulted Greg, John, the Agents… I threatened them, Molly. Plans were being formed, then I had a call. It was Viola's mother. Turns out Viola called her when she ran away. It took Maria nearly three hours to get access to my number. The foreign office did not want to give it to her. Despite having a child together… I never even considered that she may need to contact me. An idiotic lapse of judgement. We tracked Viola's phone… Only to find she had thrown it into the Thames. It led to no leads… Nothing. I lashed out, the whole investigation is moving so _slowly._ I couldn't deal with their stupidity."

Molly stared in shock.

"I do not wish to repeat what I said," He told her, "The words… They were not good. It appears exhaustion has negated my neural capabilities."

Silently, Molly reached her hand out across the table. He didn't seem to notice.

"Throughout my adult life, I've exerted joy revelling in the assumption that Mycroft acted effectively because of his team, rather than his own volition. His lack of independence is something I've always held above his station…" A remorseful complacency evolved, "It appears I've been dreadfully wrong. Without Mycroft, these people run around with as much direction flies in jars. it appears for once, I may be out of my depth. It is beyond my understanding as to how to control an operation as large as this."

The uncertainty in his tone was alien to her ears, Molly found herself rooted to the spot.

"They will have me back, of course. I _am_ in charge. But not until I sleep. …So, I came here."

"It's not like you to follow orders," Observed Molly softly.

"These events are forcing me from my usual character traits, it appears." Sherlock swallowed, and in a gesture that made him appear older, he ran a hand over his temple. "I don't understand how both Viola and Mycroft could be under the radar. I hate not knowing." His eyes drew to focus on an unseen, middle distance, "We are barrelling towards something… Something big. If Matteo is going to interpret Moriarty, then I cannot determine what damage he is capable of. The probabilities are endless."

Suddenly, he stood and began pacing.

"Hey, Sherlock, no-" Molly murmured to no avail, and took hold of one of his palms that was bunched in a fist, standing. It was like an electric shock. He stopped, eyes burning into her incredulously.

"I just want-"

"To hit something? To delete all of this?" Molly laced her fingers through his, "I know… Me too."

His head dropped a little, a black curl dropping almost in front of his eyes. After a painfully long moment, his baritone reverberated once more, "Viola is intent on luring Matteo out. She didn't run out of fear. She was… _Tactical."_

"You think it will work?"

"She is very clever, and carries my genetics… She is capable of anything. That is what I'm terrified of. We need to find her first- Before she does something she regrets." His words were cut within a hollow cave, a string instrument carved open, "…If Matteo hurts her. If he permanently damages Mycroft… He won't see the light of day again."

Molly's heart caught in her throat. She was scared. Firstly, at his admission of fear. Secondly, at what his words exactly meant. It wasn't the Sherlock she knew. Her Sherlock would run into cases with gleeful energy, charged with the distinct delight only mystery could provide. Now remained a grim determination. His heart laid bare. His weaknesses exposed. …Like an open corpse.

"I, ah," She started shakily, "I have a sleeping tablet. If it would-"

"No medication. Definitely not." Sherlock waved her off flatly, "An addiction risk is not what I need right now. Not when my body is craving the sweet release of cocaine."

"…You're craving cocaine?"

He stepped away from her now, and ran his hands through his hair, "It is why I'm here."

Molly frowned, "I don't-"

"Addicts often replace one addiction for another. Right now, I find my best replacement is you."

Sherlock watched the woman he loved, momentarily looking stung before looking complacent. "…Not your worse replacement, is it?"

"Certainly not. You're intensely powerful."

Through tired eyes, Molly managed a smile. "Listen, let's try and sleep. Four hours tops, if that brain of yours is feeling revitalised, you can go back to work. Your body is transport, and it's not time to lead it into a car crash. Viola and Mycroft… They need you to be well."

The reluctance was evident on his face. But the facts won out.

Without word, they headed to Molly's bedroom and got undressed. Sherlock remained in his underwear, and Molly kept her pyjamas on. Carefully, they slipped under the covers, not touching, and Molly turned out the light.

For a while, they lay there, staring at the ceiling. The distant sound of traffic noise hummed in the distance. Molly was waiting to hear Sherlock's breathing even out, yet it didn't. Eventually, she summoned the courage to turn onto her side and face him.

"Sherlock," She inquired gently, "I don't want to be away from your side again. I don't want to be kept away from this case. Let me help you fix this."

A gentle rustle of the bedding followed, and he turned to face her too. "It will be more manageable with you by my side. It appears I need to confess a change of…"

Perhaps it was the darkness, perhaps it was the fear, or perhaps it was the love, that drove Molly to her next move. She would never quite understand. Yet, it played out beautifully.

Her soft hand reached over and placed behind his neck, pulling him closer. Their lips met in a chaste embrace. For a moment, the world fell away. It was blissful white noise and a captivating orchestra all at once.

Eventually, they parted, both short of air. The woodland and the ocean remained meeting at the point where the land began, scarcely apart.

"Molly…" Sherlock breathed, his eyes opened and fixed her with a complicated expression. It was pure as if all that mattered at this moment was this. "Say it like you mean it."

"What?" Molly tensed, pulling back a little. _Don't do this, not now._

"Go on, say it," He implored deeply.

Doubt filled her, suddenly she was burning hot and wanting an escape. Why was he making her relive this?

Sherlock watched her carefully, _fear love nerves shock love-_

"Sherlock, I can't, why would you…" Emotion clouded her voice, the words didn't come.

Sherlock brought one of her hands against his chest, she felt the rapid vibrations of his heart under her fingers. "Molly don't doubt me. This sentiment isn't easy to comprehend, I have been proclaimed a sociopath from eight years old. Unable to perceive beauty in either sex my entire adult life. I do not perceive social constructs as a guideline to existence… I should be able to switch _this_ off, but I cannot. The world is dangerous, and I am at a loss as to how this event in our lives will end up. I thought it best to keep everything silent, but I cannot. It's eating away at my better judgement. I need it spoken… So, I can focus on the work. Do you understand?"

Molly' eyes were blown wide against the darkness.

"You have hurt me, and I have every right to be angry about it. Yet I cannot let you go. This change in our relationship is… Transformative. Beyond what I have ever been taught I would be capable of. Eurus said I was incapable of such a thing. But it was a diagnosis. One that could be wrong, although in hindsight I do require further evidence."

"Sherlock…"

"Say it like you mean it, Molly. For me."

The world stopped turning beneath them. Molly's jaw opened and closed a couple of times before the simplest words were spoken quietly, afraid to wake the slumbering city. "…I love you."

Sherlock tensed, but it wasn't out of repulsion. As the shock settled, he leaned closer, until their eyes naturally fell shut in anticipation. In the darkness, it was easier.

"I love you."

Their lips met instantly. Colours flourished around them, tantalising in the silence. For a moment, there was no trauma. No blaming or anxiety. They kissed until everything was merely them. London slept, yet the orchestra of Sherlock and Molly played on.

* * *

 **02:16am.**

A quite buzz rippled through the kitchen of Molly Hooper's flat, penetrating the wood it laid upon. A small blue glow emitted through a dark room.

 **Shezza, I got something you're looking for.**

 **Wiggins**

* * *

 **Well well well...**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this action-packed chapter! So excited for you to read what's coming next.  
Please let me know your thoughts! **

**See you at the next one...**


	19. The Pantomime

**Hello everyone! Would just like to thank you all for your AMAZING continued support!**

 **This story is now on its final trajectory and I'm so excited to have you on board.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

 **22:43pm**

Billy Wiggins, despite many people's claims, was a good man. At least, that is what he'd like to consider himself as. The life of casual civilians was not for him. It never had been. In school, staff had labelled him as destructive for his creativity, he didn't have the focus for sitting as the ordinary did. Doctor's labelled it as an acute form of ADHD, but Wiggins didn't live by labels. He was merely a blip in the system. Being homeless meant being 'free'. Homelessness gave him purpose.

He had been incredibly lucky to meet Sherlock Holmes, a kindred spirit of sorts. Their partnership had formed the homeless network, an undercover intelligence formation led by London's 'Irregulars'. Everyone underestimated them. But that was the beauty of it.

Wiggins had the ability to _fast track_ people in trouble to see the detective. When he'd laid eyes upon this young woman, Seraphina – _An obvious fake name, but who was he to judge? –_ The tell-tale signs of distress all pointed towards the need for consultation. She had a case, a big one.

Viola was stood by a dustbin acting as a fireplace in a bedsit used by a large group of the homeless in the local area, according to Wiggins. A distant look played on her face, as if afraid the whole world was listening.

Billy watched her curiously, inhaling a drag of a cigarette, "You want one?"

Viola jolted, "…No." She thought for a moment, "Thank you- er, for the food though."

"No worries," He smiled lightly, "What brings you to England then?"

"Not your business."

"We're all friends 'ere, init," Billy shrugged, contently rolling his shoulders, "Can 'elp you if you tell me."

Viola's eyes narrowed, and Billy had a strange sensation that he recognised the gesture. "How would _you_ help?"

"I know people, I know London," Billy tossed the cigarette to the floor, and quashed it with a tattered shoe, "Don't underestimate the 'omeless."

Viola shook her head lightly, as if in response to the ridiculousness of her own predicament. Her blue eyes gazed into the small flames.

"…I ran from a man who is after me. But I need to get back to him now. I don't want the police to find me too."

The Italian girl was surely shaping up to be interesting. "…Why would you want to go back to him if you ran?"

"He has a thing I want back."

"A thing? …Like a diamond?"

Suddenly, to Billy's surprise, the girl laughed. A light, lyrical sound, _"Vorrei che fosse cosi semplice,"_ Viola shrugged, reverting to English, "No… Not a diamond."

She lifted her eyes up and her smile drifted away. Wiggins was scrutinising her, scanning her, observing every minuscule detail of her body language.

After a beat, Wiggins shook himself, and a cocky smile returned. "How you gonna lure this man out?"

"How do you know it's a him?"

Billy smirked, " _Thanks_ for confirming that fo' me."

Viola's jaw dropped, her hands fisted by her sides.

"I won't tell anyone, missus. It's chill."

As he placated the girl, she stormed past him and sat down with a hiss of pain onto a sleeping bag. Her arms crossed on her knees. Billy stood, dumbfounded, and cursed quietly when he saw her expression begin to crack.

"Nah, listen, I'm bad at shit like this, missus. Ah, sorry, I only meant to 'elp you, I did."

Viola forced a pit of anxiety down, refusing to spill a tear. She glanced at Wiggins and was surprised at his genuine troubled expression. It was a change from the cockiness he'd carried for hours. She felt Wiggin's presence sit by her side.

"This man who's after you then… He wants to kill you."

Viola, too anxious to give anything away, remained stiff.

"You 'ave that thing that people in real danger 'ave. I've seen it in many a person, hell, I've been there myself."

"You do not know anything," Bit Viola in a low tone, "You don't know me."

"No, but I'm sick at readin' people. Trust me, especially on the streets, I see this sort of danger all the time-"

"-Not _this_ sort of danger." She muttered quietly.

Billy paused, sighed, and sat back and leaning on his palms. "Let me level with you, alright? I like you. You're clever… After bein' with someone for a few hours I can normally tell you their life story… I can't with you."

Viola's head tilted towards Wiggins, blue eyes dusted with orange from the flames.

"I'm not tryin' to be funny like, just… There's no judgement 'ere. Listen, I 'ave a mate who can 'elp."

Viola's brow tilted inwards as she tried to translate his words. "I am not putting my trust in someone I don't know."

Wiggin's chuckled, "Everyone says that 'til they know 'im."

"I need to do this on my own. It's safer that way."

Wiggins offered her a small smile, and Viola knew she hadn't won the argument yet. With a noncommittal huff, he went to his feet, retrieved a flask, and poured some liquid into its lid. "'Ere, you look like shit."

Viola frowned at the dark liquid, but then it dissipated when she realised it was coffee. Viola's bright blue eyes meet his deeper ones, and they smirked at each other. Gratefully, she took a sip.

The sour liquid met her tongue with such acidity she grimaced, coughed, and forced it down her throat. Wiggins burst out into hysterics.

"That," She stated, "Is _not_ coffee."

"Well the 'omeless 'ardly provide macchiatos."

Viola helplessly began to laugh again. She didn't realise how much she needed to.

Wiggins, chuckling, took the lid off her and took his own sip, without so much as a flinch. "What do you do for a livin', Missus-Too-Good-For-A-Tramps-Coffee?"

Viola felt herself relaxing, felt her guard slipping down. This strange man with funny words and an even funnier accent had shown her more support than anyone else could have. He made her feel normal, in a world that had turned upside-down.

Hours later, with Billy offering to be her protector for the evening, Viola managed to fall asleep.

Wiggins stood by the dustbin fire, ripping some magazines to keep the flame alight. He couldn't stop thinking about the strange girl. Something about her manner was so familiar, yet he had never met a person quite like her.

"Who put tits on Shezza 'Olmes?"

Wiggins jerked at the loud voice, immediately pushing his palms on the shoulder of the man who appeared, "Watch it will yer, shh! She's sleepin'".

"Jeez, pal, sorry." He laughed, and quirked an eyebrow at Wiggin's alarmed expression, starting in a hushed tone "Who is she?"

"A case."

"For Shezza?"

"Mm," Wiggins smiled, "A good one."

"Where did you find her? She looks just like him-"

"No, she…" Wiggins trailed off, eyes widening immensely. It was as if he suddenly saw her as someone else, "Well, shit. She does. I didn't realise."

"Thought you were meant to be clever one."

"Bugger off." Wiggins ripped up another page of the magazine, "You heard the news anyway? Can't take her to Shezza right now can I?"

"Yeah I saw… What sort o' person kidnaps Mycroft 'Olmes?"

"Don't know. But I wouldn't wanna be them when Shez gets his 'ands on them."

The man huffed a duffel bag off his shoulders. He knelt to open it and pulled out a magnifying glass. "Found this at the Edgeware Bolthole, it's Shezza's isn't it?"

"Yeah, he's been lookin' for it for ages." Wiggins nodded, "I'll text 'im. Now, go to bed. I'm guarding 'er tonight. Don't want her wakin' up with druggies breathing down 'er neck."

"Sure thing." The man laughed quietly, standing and putting the bag on his shoulders. He made a move to leave, "And Wigs?"

"Mm?"

"Stop blushing like a school kid, it doesn't suit you."

Wiggins tensed, cutting the man with a hot glare, "Piss off."

The man's chuckles reverberated round the bedsit as he left into another room. Wiggins watched him go, then swiftly swept into action. He approached a pile of old boxes and dragged out a mobile phone. Magnifying glass in one hand, he fired of a text to Sherlock.

 **Shezza, I got something you're looking for.**

 **Wiggins**

Billy Wiggins silently returned to his post, pocketing the phone by his side. Silently, he hoped Shezza would get in touch and soon. Returning his lost magnifying glass and bringing a case to his doorstep? Shezza's Christmas was coming early.

* * *

 **06:03am**

The first sensation Molly awoke to was warmth. Too much warmth, in fact. Molly blinked her eyes open drearily. _God,_ she was tired.

A deep hum reverberated behind her, vibrating right through her body.

Molly's heart stopped, as reality came rushing through the gates.

The source of warmth... Was Sherlock Holmes.

Every moment of the night before hitting her with force. Molly remembered his violin playing, his confession of love, their desperation for closeness and pure need that had almost driven them to the tipping point.

They could have slept together. They very nearly did. Molly sighed as everything replayed, wandering hands, gasps and moans. Passion fuelled by years of unrequited affection had almost been her undoing, Sherlock's intent to forget the world throwing him into the abyss…

It's what had stopped her.

Deep down, Molly knew he had wanted to forget.

Molly would have worried she was using him, Sherlock would have feared he had taken advantage.

It wouldn't have been right.

He claimed he loved her, and she wanted to believe him… But he was exhausted, fuelled by defeat, and wanting reassurance. A pang settled in Molly's chest, and her eyes closed. Even men with brilliant minds reach out for comfort in times of need.

"I can hear you thinking."

Molly jolted at the sound, silently berating herself for not noticing Sherlock stirring. Her eyes clamped shut, nerves gripping her.

"I hardly imagine being anxious is apt considering where we stand, Molly." There was a brief pause, before a gentler voice continued, "Face me."

Swallowing, Molly pushed herself around and laid with her head against her palm. Sherlock's arm draped over her waist, and he watched it for a moment, perplexed. His hands betrayed his sense of calm, the digits of his hand tapped small rhythms without a meter as if mapping out a disjunct violin melody.

"…How are you feeling?"

"Although it isn't in my nature to admit it, the sleep has marginally refreshed my energy."

The corner of Molly's mouth pulled upwards, "I'll hold you to that."

With devastating intelligence, he watched her for a long moment "…I did mean what I said. I know you're questioning it-"

"Sherlock-"

"I _know_ you are… I don't blame you. But be assured my intentions are sincere." Sherlock debating his next words, "If I am rude, untoward, or demanding… If I ignore you or forget you're there… Please understand I can't and won't change who I am. But you do count. And I…" His jaw closed, and he blinked several times.

Molly reached out and gently touched his arm, "I know. You don't need to say it. I know."

Sherlock intensely watched her small hand. He saw the small callouses from her years wielding scalpels, he saw the lightest shadow from the engagement ring she once wore on her ring finger, a small IV scar from a stay in hospital when she had been eighteen.

Molly's pupils were blown wide, a slight determination drawn on her features. Her hand slowly travelled up his upper body until it reached his hair. Her fingertips delicately travelled into the soft curls. She was half expecting him to turn away, but instead, he leaned into the touch, eyes momentarily closing.

Almost overwhelmed, Molly leaned inwards, and their lips met in a gentle caress.

Sherlock wished he could have stayed a while longer.

 _I love her. I really love her._

Eventually, he pulled them apart. The affection in his eyes fading as focus came into them. Efficiently, he pushed himself upwards and out of the bed, immediately pressing towards the bathroom. "Call Lestrade, get him to send a car. I'm going back to the case immediately, there is no time to waste."

A short amount of time later, in a strange of truly unique domesticity, Sherlock and Molly were almost ready. Sherlock got ready robotically, mind clearly elsewhere. Molly had counted her lucky stars when she had managed to convince him to eat. It was the moment when Molly was reaching for her shoes that Sherlock froze.

"Sherlock? …What is it?"

Molly stepped over to his side, although he didn't seem to register her presence there. His hand gripped onto his phone like a vice, knuckles slightly white on the edges. Blue eyes pierced the screen.

Jaw parting a little, Molly got close enough to see the screen. A message from Billy Wiggins was lit up before her. "What does Wiggins have for you?"

"Nevermind Wiggins," He muttered quickly, dismissing the text message, "Have you seen the time?"

"Yes… I don't understand-"

"I gave them twelve hours to find Viola. If they couldn't, then we planned to go public about her disappearance."

"Go public?"

"Under a false identity. Give the public cause enough for concern. Get them to look too."

"A false… Sherlock, maybe it would be quicker and better if you told the truth-"

"No," He cut in, suddenly turning to her tensely, " _No._ It is not in Viola's best interests to do that. Ah!" Suddenly, he turned on his heel, briskly approached a window and pushed the curtain aside, "The car is here." Sherlock took his scarf from Molly's hands, flashing her a confident look, "No time like the present."

With purpose, he turned and left, Belstaff waving on his shoulders. Molly stood numbly for a moment, before breaking out into a soft jog and securing the flat behind them. Her mind absently replaying the image of that text message. What had Wiggins wanted?

* * *

 **07:37am**

A flurry of activity exploded as the car pulled up. Sherlock was out of the vehicle like a shot, and immediately accosted by special agents. Molly fumbled with her seat belt, following behind a short moment later. By the time she reached the other side of the car, Sherlock was already leading the way inside the bunker, demanding data.

John, part of the crowd, stopped, waiting for Molly whilst the masses moved away.

"Thank you," She breathed gratefully, reaching his side.

John smirked, and Molly was grateful to see he had gotten some sleep too and has changed his clothes.

"Where's Rosie?"

"Oh," He smiled, and directed them to start walking, "She's with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock's parents."

"I thought they were-"

"They're not here anymore," John replied, "There was no use them staying and getting in the way of space the teams need." His hands joined behind his back, "They have guards stationed with them."

"Good." Molly nodded.

John slowed, "Did Sherlock talk to you about what happened yesterday?"

The weight in his voice didn't go amiss. "A little… He said he threatened you. He didn't want to talk much about it, though."

"I'm surprised he said anything, to be honest-"

"John," Molly stopped walking, and turned to face him fully. Her brown eyes implored into her friend's, "Tell me, was it bad?"

"Worse than bad."

"I don't-"

John took in a breath and straightened his posture, once again appearing as the soldier, and began to explain.

* * *

 **20:12pm, The Day Before.**

"John!" Sherlock bellowed, "It's just around the corner, come on!"

Himself, John, Lestrade and Freya were tracking Viola's phone. Since Maria had got in touch, it was an easy task.

Sherlock's behaviour was becoming more and more erratic, his mind shooting in more directions. He saw everything as words, colours, music, but it was distorted, a frantic kaleidoscope.

 _Find Viola. Save Mycroft._

They entered an alleyway with a small opening to the Thames, tucked away on Rotherhithe Street.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the scene rapidly. _Slight destruction of the gravel on the ground, winds reached 24mph today from the East, wouldn't move air in this alleyway. Destruction is from a human. She'd sat on the ground making this call. Exhausted. Scared. My fault-_

 _Focus!_

"It was here, on this spot. This is where she made the call."

Greg nodded, "I'll contact the Yard to survey the perimeter, but I doubt we can afford much at such short notice."

 _You need more hard evidence, Sherlock!_ Mycroft's voice cooed, _this isn't enough._

Sherlock's hands flew to his hair as if pushing an unwelcome thought away.

"We need back up." The demand came, staccato and clipped. "Get carbon dioxide detectors-"

"Carbon diox-" Lestrade repeated, "Sherlock, this is a public-"

"Well, sniffer dogs then! Across zones one and two, then into wider boroughs."

"Mate," Started John, "Come on, we're doing what we can."

Sherlock pushed John away, "Why are you all standing there like imbeciles waiting for me to make a miraculous breakthrough?"

"Sherlock-"

"Viola was _here,_ " Sherlock stopped suddenly, his hands gripped the railings, " _Right here._ She was desperate, she called her mother whom she abhors because she was so afraid. But she isn't an idiot, she wanted Matteo to follow her. So, Viola is lost now meandering the streets of London with no direction no protection no-" The heat was becoming unbearable under the collar.

Lestrade approached, "Sherlock, you know I would gather the whole force, but that's impossible. We can't afford an operation of-"

"Then what's the point of you?"

Freya suddenly moved over, face calm, "Sherlock, listen, why don't you take a breath and-"

"Piss off!" He shunned her with a wave of his arm.

"Sherlock you need to calm down-"

"You're all idiots. This is wasting time! I need prints taking from this railing now, so we can make a match and find her." His teeth were slightly bared, eyes blown wide burning into the spectators with acidic vehemence.

Lestrade groaned, "I'll get people on the prints, I'll get the dogs, goddammit Sherlock but this takes time and money you can't expect them straight away-"

Sherlock pushed himself off the railings.

"Lestrade so help me," Sherlock started, bitterly low, "If you don't get me what's needed I'll find another way to _knock intelligence_ into your skull-"

John forced himself between them.

"Oh, look. Here's _hero_ John, _best friend_ John, _always-looks-impressed-by-deductions_ John."

This wasn't anger… This was verging on mania.

"Let me give you some facts. You like facts, don't you? Yes! Ah! Because I'm clever. Well, John Hamish Watson," Sherlock stepped closer, towering over his companion viciously, "If this was Rosie that had gone missing, if this was Harriett that was kidnapped-"

 _"Don't-"_

"You would not stop until your every need was met. You wouldn't accept their delays and false promises. Yet you stand here, hypocritical. Use your brain. Perhaps I'll _kidnap Rosie_ to make you see how it feels-"

Sherlock was pushed backwards against the railings. There was no pain, just a complete loss of coherence..

The fire extinguished.

His back hit the floor.

Viola's presence felt like a ghost, staring down into his soul and blaming him for his lack of tact. It was his fault. Completely. He couldn't think couldn't breathe couldn't _feel couldn't-_

"Jesus," Lestrade gasped, "What's happening?"

Freya knelt in front of the detective, "William, can you hear me?"

There was no response, apart from short gasps of _'Molly'_.

"It's Freya," She continued, "You know me, you remember our work, don't you?" Professionally, she started to give instructions.

John and Lestrade could only stare in horror. They had no idea what was happening. No idea what to do. John's medical training had flown off the coast. He recognised the words, the methods, the patience… They were techniques used in military debriefing for crisis intervention.

Since when had Sherlock ever _needed_ military debriefing?

It took what felt like an age, but eventually Sherlock started to respond, and to John's amazement follow her orders.

"William, I need you to stay sat down whilst I contact Agent Chen now, alright? You're in London, Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade are here. Don't try to move on your own."

The redhead slowly pushed herself to stand, removing an earpiece from her pocket, speaking to John and Lestrade as she did. "Sherlock is sleep deprived, dehydrated and starved. I am not going to allow him to continue leading this investigation until he has rested. It's paramount to his safety and for the return of the missing Holmes'".

John took hold of her arm, "What the hell was that?"

Freya leaned inwards, voice dropping considerably, "Has Sherlock ever told you what actually happened when he was dead?"

The question felt like an anchor hitting the ocean floor. "Er-"

"Sometime, when this is all over… You should ask him."

Freya pivoted, pressed the earpiece, and started talking rapidly. John could only stand limply, with more questions than answers.

* * *

 **07:38am.**

Anthea's heels clicked against the hard floor as she walked aside Sherlock into the Ice Man's cave, "We have actors on standby for the press report at the met. We go on air at 10am. I need to go through the details with you and disclose what information we're keeping accurate and what we're changing for the sake of the investigation. It's imperative this remains unlinked to Mycroft. The largest media outlets, from the BBC to The Guardian have been called with utmost urgency to send journalists."

"We'll do this now. Time is of the essence."

"Of course, Mr Holmes. Agent Chen will debrief you after you're meeting."

He quirked an eyebrow, "Meeting with who?"

They reached a door, and Anthea grasped the handle. Sherlock frowned in irritation. "What is it?"

"Maria Esposito arrived in the early hours of the morning, she wishes to see you before this continues."

 _This w_ as a delay Sherlock had no time for. Not when the world was waiting for him to act. Sentiment and _family grievances-_

With an intuitive look, Anthea tilted her chin up, "Viola is her daughter too."

"Do you think I'm an idiot-"

"I think you're a Holmes," She responded firmly, "And I know the Holmes' can be irrational, overprotective, and unsympathetic towards their families."

"You're referring to my brother."

"It is in your best interest not to admonish her."

"Why are _you_ trying to protect her? Your priorities aren't with me, or Viola, for that matter. You work for Mycroft."

"Mycroft's family is one of his greatest concerns, I consider it in my job description to maintain decorum."

Sherlock's lips tingled with deductions to berate her with but forced them aside. Anthea was one of Mycroft's favoured assistants and had been for years. Mycroft, who scarcely trusted a soul, placed vast loyalty in her.

"Fine. Let me through."

Anthea smirked, having won the battle, and pushed open the door.

Sherlock's cool demeanour shifted the moment he lay eyes on Maria. A weight stood menacingly in between them, the weight of the child who they'd both spectacularly failed.

Sherlock stood rigidly, scarcely blinking. His mind raced rapidly, processing deductions and the information that came from her like a machine. The neurones configured, the nervous system responded accordingly, and yet he suddenly couldn't find words. He had never loved Maria, in fact, he'd experienced little affection for her. In comparison to Molly, she was entirely insignificant. It was a toxic encounter, but it had spawned a child. A child who was now in danger.

"Our daughter is missing."

 _Our daughter._

Sherlock studiously avoided Maria's eyes, as a foreign wave eclipsed his soul.

"You let our daughter run away." Her voice shook. "Our daughter is in danger and you don't know where she is."

Suddenly, her feet were moving before her thoughts. Sherlock was caught in a tight hug. The dam burst, and she sobbed into his arms. For a fleeting moment, Sherlock didn't have to hide his grievances. His head dipped towards her shoulder, shielding the world away.

It was to this scene John and Molly walked in on and found themselves shell shocked. Both of their hearts ached at the image before them.

Two parents terrified for the future of their missing child.

* * *

 **08:24am.**

Sleep was a good thing when faced with danger, Viola rationalised, as she pulled a black hoodie over her shoulders. With sleep she had compartmentalised the events of the day before. From Sherlock's harsh accusations, Matteo's attempt at getting her attention to her current predicament.

Viola needed to act, and quickly, if she wanted to succeed in saving her uncle.

But, although she hated admitting to such a weakness, she couldn't do it alone. Viola didn't understand England, how it functioned. One wrong move and she'd be caught, and Matteo would be free to do his worst. Wiggins was a unique creature, aloof and yet understood London better than she imagined the police did. His knowledge could be her cause for success.

"You got a plan today then?" Wiggins asked with a too wide grin.

Viola, pulling her head through the jumper huffed, "Yes, I do. Would you help me?"

Billy choked back a laugh as her hair got caught around the hood. "Depends what help you need, missus Seraphina."

"I need a fake identity card. Can you do that?"

"Easy as pie."

Viola frowned at the strange phrase.

Billy smirked again, "And? What else?"

"What's England's alcohol scene like? _Cultura?"_

Wiggin's eyebrows raised, and his shoulders rolled back. Viola started to recognise this as a gesture of interest. "You wanna get sloshed?"

"Sloshed?"

Wiggins began describing with his arms in tow, "Sloshed… Plastered, bladdered, on the lash, legless, off your trolly…"

"Okay, I understand!" Viola cut him off with a giggle, "English is a _stupid_ language."

Wiggin's chortled, "So… You do wanna do that then? Because I tell you, I ain't good with alcohol, one less addiction is probably the best-"

"No," Viola replied, although her face had dropped at him coining the term a _ddiction,_ "I want to get attention of the man who's after me. A public place. With young people… Where I won't be noticed."

"Like a night club?"

"…An alcohol bar, not a pub? Dancing?"

"That's the one."

Viola smiled lightly. It was risky… But she knew Matteo, she knew his weaknesses. This would probably be her best starting point. "England's alcohol bars are more dramatic than ones at home. You have no _piattini?"_

"No idea what that is so I'm gonna say no."

"Please, Wiggins, help me. …I'm thankful for you being here."

The homeless man's features softened, his deep blue eyes taking on a warm undertone she hadn't noticed before. "Anything for damsel's in distress, missus Seraphina."

Soon afterwards, they left, ducking behind alleys and out into the jungle. Wiggin's absently kept checking his phone; Shezza hadn't been in touch.

 _This Mycroft drama must be bad,_ he thought, _I need to keep the lass distracted a while longer._

* * *

 **09:31am.**

"No, Sherlock… Absolutely not. I will not go along with this."

Sentiment is found on the losing side, only seeking to complicate the minds of those it grasped.

A manifesto which had epitomised Sherlock's existence seemed all too prolific in this moment. Yes, his feelings had _altered_ somewhat, in reaction to his newfound love of Molly Hooper, the only individual he had ever perceived as beautiful. But it didn't alter the reality of it. Sentiment _was_ a defect.

It didn't make it worthless, as Mycroft would have proclaimed, but it was the truth.

Dealing with Maria Esposito's sentiment was akin to a foal leaping over a champion horse's hurdle. The woman was not to be manoeuvred.

"Keeping Viola's identity secret is of paramount importance to ensure her long-term safety-"

"Don't," Maria glared warningly, "Don't _it's for her long-term safety_ me. She is in danger now, no thanks to you, keeping her identity hidden is only going to impede the chances of getting her back."

"Need I remind you Maria it was _you_ who told John, ergo me, to keep her out the news."

"That was to prevent Matteo finding her. That was before she went missing-"

"Keeping her name out of this will only slightly diminish the chance of finding her quickly. It's a compromise that's a necessity."

Maria's hands rubbed over her face, and she groaned into them, before dragging them away to stare down the consulting detective. "This isn't a game! Matteo is extremely unstable, and Viola can't predict what he'll do. She may claim it to God's end of the earth, but it doesn't make it true."

"You act like I am not aware of this."

"You _are_ unaware! You speak of the long term… You need to consider the now. If this mistreatment of the justice system causes her return to be delayed and that's why I'm faced with identifying her body-" She forced a steadying breath, "Please. I beg of you. This is our daughter that's at stake."

"You're overestimating the impact of-"

"Sherlock, you're a _celebrity_ in this country, if the public know it's you… Thousands more people will be looking. They will be on the streets, helping you."

Exasperated, Sherlock turned to the doorway and gestured to Molly and John who had been stood there for the best part of an hour. "Molly tell her."

Brown eyes grew, "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell Maria you agree with me! I need to work, and I can't if she's expelling _motherly rights a_ nd refusing this part of the plan."

Nervously, Molly looked between Sherlock and Maria, and took in a slow breath. Her eyes lingered on the clock on the wall when she spoke. "…I don't agree with you Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock's blue eyes shot onto John.

"Me neither mate, sorry."

The detective's cheek clenched, "Then you're all idiots lacking the basic knowledge to navigate human existence."

Molly pushed herself off the wall, and moved into his personal space slowly, "Those insults will get you nowhere with us and you know that. Sherlock… We want to support you, and we will… But I do think your attention needs to be on finding Viola quickly, as opposed to discretely." Gently, she linked one hand with his. "…I suppose that drawing attention to her in such a personal way may also motivate Matteo to draw himself out."

"Or it could infuriate him to the point he kills Mycroft." Sherlock replied, despondent, "Which one is more worthwhile?"

"…Mycroft is leverage, it is unlikely he will do that."

"Unlikely- not impossible." Sherlock shook his head, reading small nuances of the pathologist he loved.

A silence engulfed the space.

"Mr Holmes," Agent Chen appeared, head held high, "The metropolitan are ready to run with the story when you are."

Instantly, Sherlock dropped Molly's hands, and moved to leave.

"Please," Maria begged, "Sherlock-" She ran to him, "Don't do this. Not like this. Please."

Sherlock didn't turn, unwilling to see the agony in the woman's features.

"This is my little girl… _Our_ little girl. Please don't risk it. I beg you."

"We do what I said. I trust my intelligence, it is exceptionally higher than anyone else's in this investigation. I'm confident this is the most beneficial approach to take. Mycroft placed me in charge and it is my prerogative to ensure this runs appropriately. Viola will thank me for this. She _stays_ a secret."

* * *

 **09:56am.**

It ran like clockwork.

Yet it was a pantomime, playing out to an unsuspecting audience of millions.

Cameras, microphones, display boards stood as a backdrop. Actors hired by the government taking their seats in the centre. Aside them, the head Detective Inspector from the Missing Persons Bureau to support their claims. The beauty of the lie was in the truth.

The closer the air time grew, the more unsettled John Watson felt.

Was it worth it?

They had travelled in blacked out cars to the Metropolitan Police's headquarters and now stood in the back room adjacent to the conference room to watch the spectacle unveil on monitors around them.

Towards the back of the room stood Greg Lestrade staring wantonly at the cigarette that balanced between two fingers. A quiet "sod it" fell from his lips and he raised and lit it.

John paced over to his friend, "Are we adding 'smoking indoors' to the list of laws we're breaking today?"

Lestrade gave John a sorry look, prying the cigarette from his lips. "We may as well, seeing as the law amounts to nothing anymore."

"Greg, yes this is dangerous, but Sherlock does think it's the only way-"

"Then he's not as clever as he says he is. Do you know many people will lose their jobs if this comes out? Good people who've worked to keep the people of this city safe could find themselves with criminal charges. All because of the mind-boggling schemes of Sherlock Holmes have become _personal."_

"Alright, yes- I _know_ this probably isn't the best way forward. But… You saw how he was yesterday, you know he isn't in his best mindset. You should contest it."

Lestrade laughed bitterly, "No. Don't you see we have no power? Mycroft Holmes stands over the police services, the people he employs remain above, too. With Sherlock in charge of this investigation, we're powerless."

John shuffled on his feet, pursing his lips.

Both men's gaze fell upon Molly Hooper as she walked past them, edging straight towards Sherlock Holmes with a coffee in hand. He took it wordlessly and started to speak to her. They couldn't make out the words from the noise.

"So," Started John reflectively, "Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper."

Greg took a drag of the cigarette. "Is this… A real thing?"

John's mind replayed the image of when he'd seen them kissing. "I think so."

"…You do? I mean, yes- I can see it. But, it's _Sherlock_. He doesn't do relationships. Not once in all the years I've known him has he shown an interest in anyone. It just… It seems unbelievable."

"People do amazing things when their livelihoods are in danger." Mused John quietly. "I think… I think in Sherlock's case he's fallen in love."

Greg's eyebrows raised, "That's what this is then… Sherlock Holmes in love? God help us all."

"One minute until we go on air!" A young man shouted, armed with a clipboard and headphones.

Molly had never doubted Sherlock Holmes, not _really._ Yes, his methods were often been completely ridiculous, but she always could see the underlying logic behind his actions. There was method to his madness. But this was different. Sherlock was protecting Viola's identity for purely sentimental reasons. It wasn't the best way forward. Potentially, it could do a lot more harm than good.

"…Sherlock, you can stop this now. You can tell them it's Viola. I know you want to protect your daughter… Please protect her now by telling the world who she is."

The consulting detective grimaced. Why didn't she understand? Why didn't anyone? He was entirely confident in his judgement. He'd considered the independent factors and possibilities of resolution and this _worked._ The world didn't need to know about his fatherhood. They didn't need to know about Mycroft. This could be solved quietly. Matteo would slip up, the rats would scatter, and he would solve the case. Moriarty's ghost wouldn't win against his family.

Molly recognised a distant look approaching the detective's features as he ventured into his thoughts and knew she wouldn't get through to him now. With a small sigh, she left his side and approached Maria. The Italian woman couldn't stem the silent tears that poured down her cheeks. Unconsciously, Molly offered a gentle smile and opened a hand. Maria blinked in confusion, brow drawing in surprise, but she too found herself moving and taking hold.

"Ten seconds!"

The players stood in the wings.

The audience sat, braced for action.

"Five… Four… Three…"

The stage was set.

"Two…"

The curtains raised.

"One… And we're on!"

The show began.

* * *

"… _Miss Mia Rizzo, twenty-three, was last seen in the Elephant and Castle underground station eighteen hours ago, exhibiting behaviour we are investigating as a cause for major concern..."_

"… _Had been receiving messages of a threatening nature on the Tinder social media app we believe to be from fake accounts…"_

" _My baby Mia, please get in touch. Your mother and I are so worried. A message, a call, an indication that you're okay. Please baby girl, please…"_

"This is a shambles!" Exclaimed Violet Holmes, throwing her hands in the air. "What a farce… He hired actors. _Actors!_ This won't help at all!"

Horace Holmes held his head in his hands, before drearily reaching out and dragging a cup of tea to his lips.

Mrs Hudson watched in horror. She bore Rosie in her arms like a shield, "Terrible business." She commented to no one in particular.

Violet continued, "Does Sherlock really think this will help bring Mycroft back? Protect Viola? Poppycock! No one will care… No one will look… He has become too confident. The boy needs to drop his ego and seriously consider the consequences of his actions." She sagged, "He can't do it. They won't find them. Mycroft won't be coming home."

In her time spent with the Holmes' company sporadically throughout the years, Mrs Hudson had realised one thing. They didn't know their son as well as they thought they did. They loved him, passionately, and would move the earth to defend him. But they were the type to a _ssume_ the ways of their children, instead of trying to understand. Of course, Mrs Hudson had no reason to judge. She couldn't imagine the toll of parenting the minds of Mycroft, Sherlock and, erm- the other one would have on them.

Now, watching the press conference, they presumed the worst. They presumed he wasn't changeable. But it wasn't true. Sherlock loved more than anyone she knew.

Having a daughter in his life would be completely overwhelming. Sherlock was a man in shock. He'd known Viola for what, ten days? That wasn't long enough for his mind to adapt to his new-found family. His decisions would go awry, as he tried to comprehend the rights and wrongs towards this person.

He was trying to do the right thing and ultimately failing.

Mrs Hudson knew she had to intervene. She had to give him a wake-up call that would forcibly stop him in a way that little could.

Her mind drifted to a strange conversation they'd had after Mary had died. He'd been so lost then, like he was now.

" _If you ever think I'm becoming a bit full of myself, cocky, or overconfident. Would you just say the word Norbury to me? Would you? …Just that."_

Mrs Hudson stilled, "How about I make us some more tea?"

The others didn't acknowledge her, but she hadn't expected them to. She walked around her sister's kitchen, placed Rosie in her high chair efficiently, and pulled out her mobile. After fumbling with the text settings for a good two minutes, she finally managed to craft the single word.

 **NORBURY.**

Pressing send, Mrs Hudson released a breath and pulled the phone to her chest, praying to God he'd see it before it was too late.

* * *

It's beguiling how a single word can convey such immense meaning.

 _Norbury._

Sherlock had been blinded by sentiment. Confident through constructing scenarios and choosing to ignore others. Viola and Mycroft had guns pointed at them and he's risking the success of this case by being _clever._

Norbury.

Just like Mary, the case was personal. That meant he could make the same mistakes.

Norbury.

The name fuelled a fire in his eyes, scorching the ice. The shock felt like plunging in deep water, yet the anger lit a match in his soul.

He saw Mary's shooting like it had happened moments before.

 _Not Viola._

 _Not Mycroft._

Molly was speaking by his side, yet her words didn't penetrate the rising smoke.

 _Norbury._

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? What is it? Who's contacted you?"

Molly began to panic. Sherlock had frozen. His body stiff as a statue. His jaw had dropped considerably, a huge reaction from a man who's subtility was his trade. It was as if someone had placed a hand down his throat and pulled his lungs out. Molly thought if she could see his mind palace, a floor would have collapsed, and dust would be rising from the debris.

A moment later, the statue stirred.

And moved.

It took a fraction of a second for people to realise what was happening.

Hell broke loose.

A chain of people moved in on Sherlock, shouts of "No!" and "Stop!" filled the air.

There was no stopping the detective. Urgency spread like paint within water clinging to every essence of his skin.

 _Norbury not Viola not Mycroft notNorbury MycroftsaveViola-_

He swung the door open.

Sherlock Holmes took centre stage.

Actors, police, and press dawned into stunned silence. The tension radiating off the detective attacked every person. Tangible danger emanated from him.

'… _It's Sherlock Holmes'_ A distant voice in the crowd whispered.

 _You're on stage. Act!_

Immediately, his demeanour changed. He addressed the room. "Greeting everyone, I apologise for interrupting proceedings."

One of the actors guffawed, bearing their teeth nervously, "Wow, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Have you come to assist?"

"Please, we're paying you to be here."

The press shifted, coming to their haunches, wielding pens and paper like an arrow to a bow.

The detective approached the table with purpose, lifting a microphone to his level, stand still attached. "I always hated public speaking. The press can often be an unrelenting enemy." His head twitched, a forceful reminder to focus, "However, I am forced to admit that we need to utilise your services. We've lied to you."

The arrow's tail was lifted into the bowstring.

"Mia Rizzo doesn't exist. She's a fabrication. A fairy-tale. One could accuse us of perverting the course of justice, however, I point out it's ironic when journalists' careers are spent in concocting similar fabrications to add distinction to their meaningless existences."

The head of the arrow pressed onto the riser.

Sherlock's voice was low and focused, yet his heart pounded against his lungs. "This woman," he gestured to a photograph of Viola from her graduation, beaming in sunlight, "…Her name is Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes. She was born on the 17th of February 1997 in San Gimignano. She's a graduate in Forensic Science from LABANOF, Milan. Currently, she is a resident in Florence." Sherlock stopped briefly, his cheek clenched, as suddenly he felt every eye watching him, knowing he was about to change Viola's life forever.

"She's my daughter."

Silence.

Sherlock's body teemed with anticipation of the shouting, the shock, the questions… But no one moved. No one breathed. They wanted him to continue.

"Her disappearance is as stated, the footage that has been presented is accurate. We believe her to be alone and very vulnerable. A man by the name of Matteo Conti wishes to bring harm to her. He has history of physical and mental abuse and it's our belief that he is an immediate threat to her." _And my brother,_ he almost said.

The string on the bow was pulled back.

Sherlock blinked, "Celebrity cases do this… Bring more attention, people adore the trivia. Leave no stone unturned. This is my case for you, the City of London. I implore you to help us find her," He swallowed, before turning to direct his eye contact directly into the cameras, "Viola, _non puoi farlo da solo. Lascia che ti aiuti."_

The bow strained.

"This is all the comments I shall be making. No further questions."

The arrow flew.

Pandemonium let loose.

Sherlock didn't hear a word. He weaved through the chaos with only one thought.

 _Not Norbury, not again._

Lestrade berated him, agents scolded him. The game had changed.

Through the mayhem, his gaze found Molly and Maria. They didn't shout, they didn't scream, they made no big gesture. Maria mouthed a thank you, and Molly managed a broken smile.

And it was worth it.

* * *

 **12:47pm.**

Viola grinned, popping another greasy chip into her mouth. God, the English could eat terribly. But it was also fantastic. She sat next to Wiggins on a copper brick wall, gazing out at an abandoned factory from the industrial revolution.

"So," Billy observed in shock, "You're tellin' me you don't like classical art?"

"No, it's boring" She replied with a smirk.

"But… That doesn't make sense!" He exclaimed, throwing an arm into the air, "Your culture is all frescoes and marble statues, Vinci and Michelangelo!"

"…And yours is all Royal Family and football."

Wiggins pouted, "Fair point." He took a chip from the polystyrene tray, "I fancied myself an artist before-"

"Wigs!" A voice yelled, "Where the 'ell have you been?!"

Wiggins and Viola turned in unison. A middle-aged woman dressed in overworn clothes was chasing up to them. "What's got your knickers in a twist Brenda-"

"I need a word," The woman hissed _, "Now."_

Wiggins shrugged at Viola and followed the woman a fair distance away. Viola watched intelligently, analysing the scene before her although she couldn't hear them clearly. The woman was explaining rapidly, arms flailing. Wiggins seemed to tense more. A moment passed, and he took a step back, almost losing his footing.

"…She's Shezza's bloody _what?!"_

Viola's heart stopped.

… _Merda!_

She leapt off the wall, chips crashing onto the mud. Heart in her throat, she took off running. Tears formed in her eyes and burned her cheeks. _I'm alone and I've lost the only person who's been kind to me. I have nowhere to go. I'm scared, I'm scared-_

Hands grabbed her.

A scream escaped her throat.

For a moment, she expected the worst. She struggled, kicked, yelled, _anything._

"Calm down! How can someone so scrawny wriggle s _o much?"_

It was Wiggins. Her body sagged, legs almost caving in. In her lapse of weakness, Billy rotated her round, blue eyes meeting hers with an indignant look.

"I think you 'ave some explainin' to do, Missus 'Olmes."

* * *

 _Four… Six… One… Two… Nine?_

 _No._

 _Four six… One… Two… Five?_

 _Focus!_

 _Eight?_

 _Yes!_

Mycroft Holmes imagined at this moment rewarding himself with lemon drizzle cake would be sufficient. Alas, he was held captive, and this he imagined was an unlikely option. Still, he prided himself for his mind's stamina under lack of stimulation. That was _pi_ to two-hundred-and-twenty-two decimal places. Perhaps he'd remember more-

 _One… Two… Eight… Ah, four-_

The door swung open. Light pooled into his small chamber. Who thought placing _the_ British Government in a walk-in wardrobe was a good idea? It was treasonous.

Wincing against the sudden light, Mycroft focused his steely irises upon Ahmed Moran. The young man sneered, brown eyes empty. His hand bore a pistol.

 _If only it were lemon cake._

Mycroft remained contrite as Ahmed assembled within his personal space, crouching down. "Are you the smart one?"

"…Sorry?"

"Out of your siblings. Are you the smart one? Always figured it was Eurus Holmes, but she's locked up, and your murderer brother clearly doesn't think things through."

Mycroft's interest skyrocketed at the mention of his brother's activities, yet his face remained neutral. "Why has my brother proved himself as stupid to you?"

Ahmed snickered, gripping the gun tighter. It wasn't a casual grip. Mycroft's eyes kept drifting to the gaping hole of the barrel. "You really wanna know?"

"My brother's excursions amuse me."

Ahmed considered this, then laughed darkly. Mycroft's body flamed with repulsion. "He really can't find you, you know. Him and his team. They don't have anything on us. But Viola will be coming first. Soon, too, I reckon."

Mycroft's stomach twisted. There was a level of condescension in the man's tone that wasn't there before. He was… Confident. Too confident. Something had changed… He had intention.

"What has my brother done?"

"He told the world who Matteo is… Left you out, mind. Probably saving that kettle of fish until another day. Shame you won't get one."

Mycroft saw Ahmed's hand twitch around the gun.

 _Keep him talking._

"Did he wear the hat? He sometimes wears a terrible deerstalker, an absolute fashion faux pas-"

"It doesn't matter," Ahmed smiled, a disjointed toothy smile, "Matteo said it's like karma. Eye for an eye." The gun was suddenly in the air, pressing against Mycroft's forehead.

"Karma is a-" _Don't panic!_ "Ridiculous notion with no factual-"

Ahmed ignored him, "Sherlock ousts Matteo out to the world… He must be punished for that."

His finger fell on the trigger.

"Nice knowing you, Mr Holmes. Send my regards to dad."

* * *

 **... Don't hate me!**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this busy chapter! I can't wait to hear your thoughts. :-)**

 **The next one takes us to the climax of this tale... The game is on...**


	20. The Swan Song

**Hello everyone!**

 **I apologise profusely for my absence. Exams forced a temporary hiatus. But I'm back, and oh boy, I hope it's worth the wait.**

 **To recap: Matteo and his 'team' still has Mycroft. Sherlock has just told the public that Viola is his daughter and that she's in danger. Lastly, Wiggins has just found said information out, but Viola needs his help. Oh- and Mycroft was about to be shot.**

 **Thank you so much for your amazing continued support! Settle in, gr** **ab a brew, you're in for a ride...**

* * *

 **Day Four of Viola Esposito's Disappearance.**

 _Mycroft saw Ahmed's hand twitch around the gun._

 _His finger fell on the trigger._

" _Nice knowing you, Mr Holmes. Send my regards to dad."_

For a moment, the world was eclipsed in darkness.

 _Mycroft braced himself for the fall. His life didn't flash before his eyes, he didn't consider his life's regrets, nor did an epiphany grace his cerebral cortex. He merely heard music, a last post for the Iceman, as he plummeted into-_

"What are you playing at?!" A soprano voice screeched.

 _A light blasted the void._

"Oh, come on, it's banter! May as well do what _she_ wanted-"

"You're a dick, Ahmed. You'll give the old fool a heart attack!" A beat, "Matteo! Come here!"

 _Mycroft's eyes burned. But then a figure emerged. A wry smirk pulled on sharp features._ ' _Focus, Mycroft. You're not dead yet. Play the game!'_

Mycroft flew back into reality. Eyes open. Gasping for air. How long had it been since he'd been that deep in the recesses of his mind?

He wasn't dead.

Forcing down sickness, his eyes slowly raised to his three captors, their shadows casting across the ground to his knees. Matteo's tanned skin flushed in frustration, stupidity wearing Ahmed's like a costume, Jessica Haggarty smugly biting back a laugh. For all it's worth, he wished to laugh too. Matteo was berating Ahmed for staging a prank. _A prank!_ That had almost destroyed one of England's most powerful men. It was _obscene._

Mycroft found words, his voice astute despite his pounding heart, "So it appears you wish to prolong my existence? If so, would it be beyond the realms of possibility to acquire lemon cake?"

"I must apologise, Little Corporal," Matteo cast a steely look to Ahmed, "This _idiot_ here thought it'd be funny to scare you. He's presenting fiction." At Mycroft's blank response, Matteo grinned, an absurdly handsome grin, "Viola's been in touch, the queen bee is returning to the hive."

Mycroft's stomach dropped.

"Mm, it seems we are going to make that trade." Matteo spoke calmly, as if listing his day plans, "Her for you, a Holmes for a Holmes."

 _A plus side to kidnapping_ , mused Mycroft drearily _, is that the young man's wit is impressive. There is nothing more disconcerting than a boring captor._

"If Viola is anything like our respective gene pool than I would suggest she's probably planning something quite the contrary."

Matteo's face glittered with _want,_ "I know… She's quite a force of nature, like fire scorching the rainforest, devastating… Yet magnificent."

Mycroft's eyes followed the young man's every movement. For a moment, they could have appeared equal. Steel against steel, yet the magnetic poles were pushing them apart with such velocity the worlds axis could have shifted.

"If Viola tries anything," Matteo started, voice grating, "If she tries to impersonate the schemes of her _father,_ then I will kill you." His eyebrows bounced, "Or perhaps I'll let Ahmed loose on Sherlock Holmes. What would be worse? Your own demise or witnessing your brothers?"

The gaze passed between them was so heated a sword could have been welded.

"Let's set the stage, Mycroft Holmes." Matteo announced gaily, dragging the politician to his feet, "You're going to help us."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, low blood pressure swimming in his skull, "With what service do you require my assistance?"

Matteo turned and leaned close to Mycroft's ear, hot air dancing on his skin. "The fall. The _real_ fall. It's time to bring the world to its knees."

Ahmed saw the politician pale and smirked. He raised his hands, then extended and dropped them with a _'poof'_. Jessica grinned, replicating the same.

Mycroft grimaced. How these millennials had managed to kidnap him, force him on air, and evade capture was beyond him. At least, he considered, he'd had apt time to analyse them. He would ascertain an understanding of their weaknesses and use it against them.

First, there was Matteo Conti. Mycroft knew he didn't care about anything except Viola. Intelligent, quick on his heel, and calculating. But his weakness was obvious. Matteo was grounded by obsession for Viola, and that was all. Everyone else was merely transport.

Ahmed Moran was the brawl, like his father had been. It was with scruple that Mycroft acknowledged the boy's identity. He should have remembered his face. Ahmed's motivations were obvious. He'd partake in this pantomime if he received one thing: Vengeance for his father's death. Vengeance that only Sherlock Holmes could fulfill.

Jessica Haggarty was the anomaly. Mycroft was beguiled initially as to why Moriarty would have found her a person of interest. Dirty blonde straight hair upon ridiculous clothes. However, time forced in her company laid an obvious matter to him. Jessica was _infatuated_ with danger. Out of the three, she was the one most likely to pull the trigger, for meaningless thrill.

"You know," Jessica mused with feigned innocence, "Your niece is dramatic as the rest of you lot?"

"Do enlighten me."

Jessica daintily reached out towards Mycroft's cheeks. The gentleness of her voice did nothing to quash the blades of the words that fell from her lips.

"Mr Little Corporal… You're dead." With a hum of satisfaction, she kissed his nose. "Viola's killed you."

* * *

 **Two Days Before**

 **12:49pm.**

"… _She's Shezza's bloody what?!"_

…

 _Viola's body sagged, legs almost caving in. In her lapse of weakness, Billy rotated her round, blue eyes meeting hers with an indignant look._

" _I think you 'ave some explainin' to do, Missus 'Olmes."_

Viola struggled for breath, the air thick ash in her throat. Billy watched her studiously, focus blistering. She was a criminal at the foot of the gallows, fixated under the gaze of her executioner.

Viola began to talk, frantically. Tears fell. She begged Wiggins not to say anything, on and on with every idiom that sprung to mind.

Wiggins shoved his hands into his baggy pockets, quirking an eyebrow of vague amusement.

Viola's body teemed with anger. Her life was in danger and he had the audacity to _laugh?!_ Viola screamed at him to go to hell, arms waving to exemplify her point. Wiggins was a moron-

That was still smirking, unmoved.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" She cried, arms thrown upwards with exasperation.

"As much as I'd love to understand them colourful words you're callin' me Missus 'Olmes they'd 'ave more impact if you spoke in English."

Viola gaped, she hadn't even _noticed-_

A police siren cut through the air. Wiggins grabbed her hand, "We need to move."

They ran in a blur for what felt an eternity. Turning a corner, they went to emerge onto a small street and people shot out past. Wiggins pushed Viola by the shoulders back into the alleyway, fixing her against a wall.

"B-Billy-"

"'You see but you don't observe' says 'Olmes, well 'ow bloody right is. Jesus!"

Viola protested in his grasp, "Let go-"

"'Olmes wouldn't just go on air n' say he has a daughter… Is this some cover for a case?"

Viola's face slackened. Suddenly, she felt faint, "…Who has he told?"

"Television. He's gone on bloody television!" Billy rolled his eyes, frustrated, but was stunned when he looked at her again.

Viola appeared about to combust.

Viola crumbled, swayed, hand shooting to brace herself on the wall. It was in that moment he really _saw_ her. An intelligent soul far from home, clawing for any sense of safety. She was telling the truth.

Wiggins relinquished his hold of her.

"Christ," He exclaimed, "You're a bloody 'Olmes. Am I trippin'?"

Viola stared at him, chest heaving. "…Please do not send me back. Please."

"You don't know 'ow I know Shezza 'Olmes. I refuse to-"

"No," She managed shakily, "No I don't know. But please, you are all I have."

"Sherlock will 'elp-"

" _No._ " Susurrated Viola, "He won't. Please, Billy. Please."

Viola could hear distant sirens in the distance, the whirring of London's traffic. Wiggin's face puzzled over several expressions before settling on exasperation. "Fine. I'm going to take you to the safest place I can think of. Then, you're going to tell me what the bleedin' 'ell is going on."

"Will you tell Sherlock?"

"Probably."

" _Billy-"_

"No. I'm offerin' you a chance 'ere. Don't take it for granted."

Viola's lip trembled a little as she offered a small nod. "My… My name is Viola."

Wiggins rolled his eyes, "Should've known you were an 'Olmes from the off."

"Why?"

"Only an 'Olmes would be so bloody reckless."

Suddenly, he gripped her hand, and they dipped beneath the streets once more. London's gaping heart took them into its hearth.

* * *

 **11:34am.**

The world had turned its greedy eyes to London. The Detective, who'd defeated death itself had betrayed the police, the press, and the people. His daughter was in danger, a mad man was on the loose, and the ramifications would last for decades.

Sherlock sat in the back of a blacked-out car, casting a hollow gaze out across the streets. Pedestrians travelled like ghosts in the mist. _Anyone of these people could know where Viola is._

Beside him was John Watson. The Doctor's hands rested in a locked position on his lap, raising up and down, up and down- _Why did we put Molly in another car? At least she has the tenacity to sit still._

Lestrade groaned at the opposite window seat. "Honest to God, Sherlock, I've seen you do some idiotic _bullshit_ , but that-"

"-Was necessary."

Agent Freya observed them through the front mirror, wondering how Mycroft allowed his teams charge to be overtaken by agitated middle-aged men. Anthea, from the driving seat, quirked an eyebrow. Clearly, the opinion was mutual.

" _Necessary,"_ Echoed Lestrade, "You've just single-handedly done something that could topple the entire police service. We voluntarily twisted the truth of a vulnerable young person for your-"

"Leave him alone, Greg." Warned John, "His daughter is missing. He did what's right. Hell, you _wanted_ him to be honest-"

"Not _after_ lying." Lestrade pivoted in his seat, "What on earth changed your mind? You're one of the most-"

"Norbury."

"What?" John paled.

"Are you going deaf in old age Gavin?"

"Did- Did you say Norbury?"

Letting out a huffed breath of irritation, Sherlock let go of tension in his shoulders. Lestrade knitted his brow incredulously, whereas John's jaw tension betrayed anxiety. "Mrs Hudson texted me… To remind me of Norbury."

John took a shaky breath, "Why would that-"

"John, I always believe my judgement particularly in the cases of danger. All my deductions assured me that we could do this without the public knowing of Viola's relation to me. But I was wrong. I can't be sure. I was just as sure Norbury wouldn't shoot. I was just as sure Mary wouldn't jump in front of the bullet. Compromises can't be afforded now the stakes are so high."

A stiff silence carried over the car.

Sherlock snapped back into focus, "Has anyone linked the news about Viola's parentage to Mycroft?"

Freya glanced down at her phone, "Not yet. Although I do believe your eagle-eyed fans who know the Holmes' own the painting of Napoleon Bonaparte displayed on Matteo's broadcast may start theorising the two events are linked."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and his head tilted back, "Let them theorise. All bets are off. We're going to save Mycroft and Viola by any means necessary." Darkness swarmed over his features, his voice dropping into an acidic pitch, "Let Matteo quiver in the grasslands, we are lions approaching our prey."

* * *

 **13:36pm**

'… _The Missing Person's Bureau purposefully impeached the means of justice…'_

"Stop dawdlin'. Look, in 'ere."

Viola frowned sceptically at the maroon door in front of her, on the edge of terraced properties. It was too neat, too exposed.

Wiggins scowled in agitation, "Come on. Inside. Now."

Swallowing back a wave of anxiety, Viola pushed open the door and stepped inside. She made two steps before stopping, stunned.

The space around her was… _Intelligence_ on canvas. Pure, unadulterated, intelligence. A small room, with two doors attached. Surrounding her were shelves laden with books on criminology, bees, and other topics she couldn't translate. A small coffee table held three laptops, two mobiles, and a plethora of case files. Photos of crime scenes were abandoned, as was a cup of coffee that was sprouting life. A worn sleeping bag laid in the corner. Beside it, a messy pile of clothes. Scrap papers with equations and maps were taped to the walls, dotted with manuscript detailing musical notes. It was… Incandescent. Viola knew Sherlock's home was uninhabitable, but clearly Baker Street wasn't his only home. Viola felt like she'd stepped into the tapestry of her father's mind.

Suddenly, reality hit her. Viola tensed, brushed a curl from her eyeline, and pivoted to acquiesce Wiggins. "This place is Sherlock's?"

"Mm," He shrugged, "A bolt hole, one of eight."

Viola narrowed her intelligent eyes, wondering what a _bolt hole_ was. "I thought we were going to a _safe place."_

"This is the safest place in London."

"But… It's S _herlock's."_

Billy casually picked a tin from off a shelf and pulled a bourbon biscuit from inside, "He won't come 'ere, and if he does- Well, you shouldn't have trusted me."

" _Billy-"_

"Why would 'e look for you 'ere, when _you_ don't even know what it is." Wiggins sighed, "Look, are you gonna talk or what?"

Viola folded her arms.

Wiggins shrugged, "Shezza treats me good, I owe 'im my loyalty. But first Mycroft appears on television tied up n' then Shezza is tellin' the world e' as a daughter, clearly either I'm blazed or somethin' bad is happenin'."

Viola rubbed her hands over her face. "The man who's after me… He kidnapped Mycroft, for, er- _negoziazione._ I must find a way to get Matteo on his own. Sherlock thinks he's so dangerous he could hurt Mycroft, but that is not true… I will make him- erm, give himself to the police. No one has to be hurt."

Wiggins watched the younger Holmes carefully. Viola piqued his interest in a way most people didn't, a collage of fiercely passionate colours. Wiggins knew she would not be moved easily.

Taking a deep breath, Wiggins stood taller, placed his callused hands on his hips, opened his mouth to speak-

 _Ring ring-_

The Anthropologist and Robin Hood froze.

 _Ring ring-_

Wiggin's, face grey, removed a phone from his pocket. An identification shone brightly.

 ** _Shezza Holmes._**

Fear soaked through Viola's body like lava. The rings syncopated with their rapid heartbeats-

 _Ring ring-_

Slowly, Wiggins placed the mobile to his ear. Viola's hands clasped in front of her almost in a praying motion. It was over. No _no no-_

' _Wiggins I require your assistance in locating my daughter.'_

The air was so silent Viola heard every word. Tears began to pool in her eyes.

"Ah, Shez," Wiggins cleared his throat, "'Ow are you?"

' _There's no point in asking. I can tell you've seen the news by the inflection of your voice."_

Viola's icy blue eyes bore into the man desperately, pleading.

"I _figured_ you'd need my services." A nervous laugh escaped his throat, "Good job on that actress playin' your daughter, looks just like you-"

' _Don't act ignorant Wiggins it doesn't suit you. You know it's true. Tell me, has the network had any sign of Viola?"_

Wiggin's visibly tensed.

" _Please."_ Viola whispered.

Wiggin's face was a stone of indecision, teetering on the edge of a cliff.

"…No, not that I know of."

Viola sagged with relief.

' _No one in the network is protecting her. Are you sure? She either knows where CCTV can't see, or someone has her.'_

"Sorry Shezza, I've not heard anythin'. I'll make sure everyone will be lookin'"

' _Good. Keep your eyes open. Contact me if you notice anything, do you hear? Trust your instinct.'_

"Yeah, of course."

There was a brief silence on the end of the line. _'Thank you, Billy'._

The line went dead.

Silence.

Wiggins was _baffled_ at the fact he'd lied, even more shocked that Sherlock had believed him. Viola was changing him in the blink of an eye. Her tears raising a protectiveness within himself that turned his stomach. He lowered the phone shakily and stared at it like it was a dangerous weapon.

"Shezza is very worried about you." He began, voice softer than intended, "E' never thanks me for anythin'. Not like _that._ E' was sincere… I'd go as far to say e's desperate."

Viola wiped the moisture from under her eyes, suddenly feeling fatigued. "…That will not change Matteo's mind."

Wiggin's raised his brow in a request to continue.

Viola sighed and sat down on the hardwood floor. Absently she picked a piece of manuscript, fingers tracing over a longing melody. "Matteo won't kill Mycroft. I know he won't… But, he is diseased, in the way he loves me." Viola sighed, wishing she knew better English, "It's… _pazzo-_ mad. I think that if he believes Sherlock controls me, he may not control himself."

"I don't follow?"

"Matteo will have to believe I love him, to let Mycroft go. If Sherlock is there, he'll be- _minacciare-_ in danger and… Be dangerous."

From her slightly off-placed grammar, Wiggins just about gaged her meaning. Viola believed she had to deal with this independently for Matteo to let Mycroft go. Matteo viewed Sherlock as a threat, so if he was there things could end in disaster. But why not sort this with the help of agents who could have Matteo shot down quietly for the sake of queen and country?

The answer was obvious.

The deduction hit like an anchor, tying her to the ground in front of him.

"You still love 'im."

Viola looked away, hands wringing together over her knees, "No."

"Perhaps not in the way you did." Started Wiggins, deducing her, "You're terrified of 'im. Yet you don't want 'im hurt, and you believe 'e isn't capable of murder, despite the fact 'e's clearly kidnapped one of the most important men in the country… Viola-"

"You do not know my heart." Viola snapped viciously.

Wiggins sat next to her. Viola looked towards the floor, eyelashes thick and daunting, afraid of looking at a truth she didn't want to admit to herself.

"Viola, I need to understand what's goin' on. I get it, you're shit scared of this mad man, but that doesn't mean you stopped lovin' 'im." He sighed at her stillness, "…But you need to understand that Sherlock won't go lightly on this man when 'e gets 'im. I don't think he'll be merciful, even if you beg 'im to. Not after takin' Mycroft, after threatnin' you."

Viola tilted her head upwards, on the edge of scathing insults and tears. Wiggins had got out of her what Sherlock had failed to. She knew it was wrong to feel any attachment to Matteo. Every psychiatrist she had seen had attested to it, but it was part of emerging from a toxic relationship. Viola loathed him, was terrified of him… Yet she still loved him. If she could get him to hand himself in, she could show Sherlock he wasn't a monster.

"Please help me."

"Tell me what's 'appened, Viola. From the beginning." He reached over and took her hand, daring to offer her comfort.

Viola told him everything. From her relationship with Matteo to the court case that landed him in jail, to the events of Sherrinford and the past week. Wiggins hung on to her every word. Her confession formed his plan of action confidently. Yes, he would help her. But he would be damned if he didn't let Sherlock intercede when the moment was right. Viola had _no idea_ what she was heading into.

 _A Holmes who loves may be the most dangerous thing in the world._

"So," Wiggin's began, "We need to get Matteo's attention. In a public place. 'Ow are you gonna do that if you're missing?"

Viola pressed her hands in a temple, fingertips brushing her chin. Wiggins found himself short for breath as in that moment, as the light touched her eyes with intelligent radiance _,_ and he saw she was wholly her father's daughter.

"First, we need one of your friends to hide my shoes."

With a sceptical pout of the lips, he nodded.

Viola's lips quirked into a confident smile.

"Then I'm going to kill Uncle Mycroft."

* * *

 **21:48pm.**

'… _This is a scandal unseen before by the Metropolitan Police. Public outcry demands…'_

 _For what it's worth,_ Molly mused thoughtfully, _Maria Esposito isn't a bad person_. For an addict, she was coping incredibly well. The two women were sat watching the news, elbows on a dark wood desk, eyes wide in wonder.

The reports were endless.

Footage showed, despite expectations of the contrary, the public out and about on the streets of London, hunting for Viola Esposito-Holmes.

Despite the outcry of the police lying, the public saw a man laying his security on the line for the safety of his child. It was a plight many a parent could relate to.

The screen switched to a BBC reporter approaching three people amongst a crowd that had gathered on Baker Street. A man with silver hair and tanned skin stood with two young adults, all of which looked entirely perturbed. The reporter started to speak to them, and the man responded in Italian. After a few moments, a translation started to run underneath the screen.

" _I'm Viola's step-father-"_

Molly straightened in shock, head flicking over to Maria. The Italian woman's jaw had dropped. "Maria-"

"Paolo's here. He's in London. He's come to help me find Viola".

Molly shook her head, "I'm lost?"

Maria started pushing herself off the chair. "He's my ex-husband, we were married for five years. He's Viola's papa-"

"Sherlock's-"

"Paolo is the closest thing she ever had." Maria watched the screen hopefully. "Those two with him are Viola's friends. They've come to help me find her." Maria went to retrieve her jacket, "I have to go."

"No- You can't-"

Molly counted her lucky stars as Sherlock emerged through the door at that moment. He froze, deducing the two women below his eyeline. "The Italian hoard have arrived?"

"Sherlock," Maria explained manically, "It's my ex-husband, he's come to London to help us find our daughter."

Molly saw Sherlock's brow knit, as if unsure who now she referred with the term _our daughter._

"Good," Sherlock nodded simply, "Go to him. Jamal, please send a car to Viola's family. Take them all to a secure location."

Maria beamed tearily, "Oh, Sherlock, thank you-"

"I will let you know any updates, I'll make sure of it. Go be with your family."

Baffled, Maria threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek, "We'll find her, Sherlock, I know it."

The detective smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes. Energetically, she let go, brushed the tears from her eyes, and followed security agent Jamal out of the room.

Molly and Sherlock were left alone.

The pathologist folded her arms, confused, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'll be better off with her not here."

"Sherlock _\- what-"_

Molly's question fell short as Sherlock grasped her by the waist and claimed her lips with his own. For a split second, she stiffened in shock, but then she felt him smirk against her, and it dissipated into passion. She pressed herself closer, hands grasping his upper arms. Sherlock moved passionately, demanding data in the most powerful way. Rationality ceased completely. Gone was his stress, his fears, his insecurities. Confidence bubbling inside her, one hand traced up into his curls, grasping on the follicles and tugging just enough-

And just like that, he pushed back. Cold air meeting them in the middle.

His pupils were blown wide, face flushed, shirt creased. Molly drunk in the sight of him. "Sherlock," She managed, fully aware of how discombobulated she sounded, "What was that?"

His brow lowered, "Can't I do that?"

"No- I mean, yes. Of _course,_ yes, but-"

"I do admit I may be using you for selfish intentions again." He remarked astutely, "We need to go Barts. That was a thank you for letting me use the lab out of hours."

"I haven't let you-"

"No, but you will. Because I just did that."

His expression was so serious it caused a burst of laughter to fall from the Pathologist's lips. Sherlock's face hardened. "…Not good?"

"Sherlock, you don't have to-" She giggled, "Why do you want to use Bart's?"

"Oh- I believe I forgot to tell you."

Molly tilted her head, warmth blossoming over her cheeks anew, "Yes, I think you did."

Sherlock placed his hands behind his back eyes dancing with excitement. "Someone's made a mistake. We have a lead."

"What sort of lead?"

"Shoes. Viola's shoes have turned up in an alley in Shoreditch. MI6 are transporting them here now."

"Shoes? How did they end up there?"

Sherlock's grin only grew, "Not by Viola."

"I don't understand-"

"Someone put them there. Yet there are no fibres left from gloves that they can see. Meaning-"

"Fingerprints."

"Exactly."

Molly's heart pounded in her chest.

"We also can run diagnostics on the external debris to find out where they've come from. We're going to find her, Molly." Sherlock smiled, a rare, genuine smile, "Matteo is going to pay for coming near our family."

With a flourish, he pulled Molly to his chest. For the first time in days, Molly felt his happiness. Sherlock could see the finish line. He could see hope. His words ran around her head repeatedly.

 _Our family._

* * *

 **22:23pm.**

Viola grimaced at her cold feet. _Why couldn't Sherlock have carpets?_ She should have asked Wiggin's for socks. Wriggling her toes, she began moving around the space, eyeing up the books on Sherlock's shelves. They were detailed books on deception, for want of a better word. Crimes, studies on psychopathy, forensics… And language. Viola stood on her tiptoes, and stretched, dragging one down from the top tier.

A book cover detailing the London tube map met her eyes, and her smirk turned into an encompassing grin.

' _Urban Voices: Accent Studies in the British Isles'_

Viola grasped the book and placed it on the coffee table. Quickly, she opened an encrypted browser on one of the laptops and searched for an English to Italian dictionary. Finally, she glanced over at the strange sets of clothes laid in the corner of the room. Viola walked over and sat down beside them, only wincing slightly at her side, and began looking through.

They were… Disguises. Wigs, makeup, uniforms (everything from a Priest's dog collar to a beekeeper's head guard). It appeared Sherlock Holmes was rather the chameleon.

Maybe Lestrade had been right, to call Viola out on her potential to be a detective. Sherlock was to be distracted. And it was time to go undercover.

* * *

 **23:58am.**

' _Remarkable scenes from London today as private detective Sherlock Holmes…'_

It was remarkable how a place that felt like home could feel so unfamiliar. Approaching St Bart's hospital, it was evident just how much had changed. The last time they were here together, she had helped the Holmes brothers navigate the discovery of Sherlock's daughter. The world turned on its axis, and things weren't ever going to be the same.

Water droplets twirled down the window panes. Street lamps lit them up in a vast array of colours, ever changing, ever moving.

Molly fiddled with the handle of the large bag on her lap as Sherlock drove into the staff car park. His face a gaunt mask, the call to solve the mystery beckoning like a siren of the sea. He was enraptured.

As the engine switched off, the only sounds that greeted them were the hushed splattering of water upon the car.

"Are you sure you'll be alright leaving the bunker to work here?" Asked Molly softly, knowing full well it was a silly question to ask.

Sherlock didn't shun her for it, however, merely following the path of a water droplet down the front window with a steady gaze. "They have all the resources to contact me," He replied, "You're a much preferable person to work with."

Molly caught the whispers of sentiment touching the edges of his expression.

Yes, things were different now.

* * *

 **02:21am.**

Wiggins pushed silently against the dark maroon door, slipping into Sherlock Holmes' bolt hole. He was dressed in a stolen chequered suit from _Moss_. Worn at the edges, but still passable for a man of domestic living.

Walking inside, Viola was nowhere to be seen.

For a split second, he flushed with panic.

But then movement sounded in the tiny attached bathroom, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Viola stepped out. Her blue eyes were now brown, a knee-length green dress over her body and her head bared a long blonde wig- _What use did Sherlock have for those?-_ She smirked at his shocked expression, wriggling her feet shoes three sizes too big.

"Does it look fake?"

"No, you look… Good."

Viola raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, _ah_ \- not like Shezza."

The girl grinned. "Did you get what I need?"

Wiggins pulled a memory stick from his pocket, sliding it over to her, "Everything we need is on 'ere."

"Perfect." She took is smoothly, placed it in her pocket, and levelled his gaze with resolve, "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, Missus 'Olmes."

With a curt nod, they both made for the door. Two assassins draped in the darkness, off to kill Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

 **02:23am.**

Deep within London's heart, a Detective and Pathologist worked side by side. It was a set up both were used to, in fact, over the span of a decade, it had become clockwork. They knew who used which microscope, who collected the samples and who ran the reports. Yet the lingering looks were afresh, a lighthouse flashing beams across a dark ocean.

Molly, extracting dirt from the heel of a shoe watched her counterpart. He was sat back on a laboratory chair, eyes open yet absent. The gesture was one she knew. For when his artistic hands reached up and started moving the air, she knew he could observe what was invisible to her eye.

Sherlock loved her.

This man, who's devastatingly intricate mind perceived the world as more detailed then she'd ever understand, loved her.

As the dirt fell into the petri dish and she secured it effortlessly, she leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. Sherlock's eyes flicked open, and she stood back, embarrassed.

Sherlock's piercing eyes ran over her, as if reading, before setting on her face. Her brown eyes were dusted with white lights, a forest after snowfall.

Sherlock turned his gaze towards Viola's shoes. His mind replayed images of her on CCTV, running, terrified- Before she vanished into dust. "If Matteo wishes to be Moriarty, then I fear I missed something. The map to find my brother."

"Hopefully these test results will give us the answers."

"But is that enough?" Sherlock countered, face flinching at his need for rhetoric, "Moriarty was always one step ahead. I removed the key players, he created grass roots. He commits suicide, but lays plans with Eurus… This could be a mindless ruse."

"It may not be."

"Someone is helping Viola keep missing, or Matteo has her. But if so, he wouldn't _keep_ Mycroft… There is something coming, something big." A beat, "What will be the repercussions? Will _solving_ it be enough?"

Molly was stunned "…It's not like you to question yourself so much."

"At least out loud."

Their eyes met, and unspoken acknowledgement of humanity passing between them.

After a moment, Molly passed over the petri dish.

As Sherlock prepared an extract onto a slide, Molly began to speak, "Let's consider this logically."

He merely raised a brow.

"Your instinct tells you we're missing something important. The map, as you put it." Her brow was knitted in concentration, "Yet you mention this is planned-"

"To the final brushstroke."

Molly frowned at his metaphorical language, "Moriarty met Eurus before he died, and they schemed. At this point, Moriarty knew of Viola, he also knew Matteo, correct?"

"That is what our sources suggest."

"To what extent did they plan it? Did they predict an outcome?"

Sherlock's mind replayed sounds of Eurus' musical nuances-

"She knew you and John would lie to me," Sherlock confirmed thickly, ignoring the way in which Molly winced, "She told me through music… Everything meant something." Suddenly he straightened, _"Everything."_

He spun on his heel and dashed off to a whiteboard that had been left after a student lecture.

"Sherlock?"

 _Eurus played, a bewitching orb cast her brother's way constantly. A small theme generated from the instrument, light and based with longing, attached with the phrasing of a classic Italian opera. Eurus played a song of Viola Seraphina Esposito. Sherlock was transfixed. The melody danced, exploring the curious fascinations of the world, but then it transformed, jarring, romantic, ugly… Dangerous._

 _For a moment, the detective forgot how to breathe. When his baritone penetrated the space, it shook, "Viola's in danger."_

The Detective moved with precise madness, captivating every inch of his body. With a swoop, he lifted a whiteboard pen, removed the lid, and struck the surface of the board five times drawing long horizontal paths.

"Think," He muttered under his breath, "Remember. Focus!"

Then, raising of the pen as a conductor would a baton, he brought down his arm and sculpted a note, then another, _then another-_

The pace was frantic, interspersed with eyes forcing shut, humming, and mutterings of various things Molly didn't understand.

The answer was in the song… It _had_ to be.

However much time passed, Sherlock wasn't aware. Soon enough, the board was a tapestry of sound. A need for music gripped his soul. Sweat gripped his brow, his arms. On and on it swirled, danced, and sang… He was a Newton on the verge of understanding gravity, Edison bringing down a current on the first phonograph, Beethoven constructing the 5th symphony, Paganini after selling his soul to the devil-

With a flourish, the music finished. Sherlock grappled for air. The notes sang in his ears, echoing across all floors of the mind palace. Taking a step back, his legs were heavy. His eyes raised slowly, taking in his work.

A score stood before his eyes.

The song of Viola Esposito.

Yet… He didn't recognise it.

 _Think!_

Clamping his eyes closed, Sherlock entered his mind palace. He entered a library, dark wood shelves surrounding every surface. Shelves bore books from his life, nursery rhymes and Beano comics, Charles Dickens novels to academic journals on Criminology. He stilled as he stumbled upon a journal article by a _Dr M Hooper_ , a smile tracing his worn features. Shaking himself out of a stupor, he soldiered onwards. Eventually, he reached his destination: musical scores. If he found the score, if he knew what Eurus was trying to communicate- He would find them. This was it.

Sherlock _knew_ it was from an opera. Yet nothing matched. Nothing _. Nothing._

Suddenly, a little girl scurried past him. Black plaits upon an innocent face with a visceral smile. Sherlock's heart turned to stone. Eurus blinked up at her big brother, _'it's a silly show'_ she sing-songed. Suddenly, Mycroft appeared beside her, except he was younger, in a creased blazer and oiled hair.

' _I consider the whole affair a swan song'_ the boy commented.

' _What's a swan song?'_ Pestered the little girl.

Mycroft sighed, wrinkling his nose, _'A final song before someone dies'._

' _But dying is silent'_ Eurus mused quietly, _'Once the guillotine drops.'_

Suddenly, she laughed before gallivanting away, footsteps echoing in the rhythm of the melody. Mycroft watched, expression worn in horror, before dissolving into-

Sherlock gasped, eyes flying open. The hospital clock clicked absently on the wall. The hum or morgue refrigerators penetrating the silence. His whole body felt cold, as if a ghost had walked straight through him.

Running a hand through his hair, he turned his eye to the time.

 _08:24._

It had been hours. Luckily, the morgue was deathly silent. Turning, he was met by the small form of Molly Hooper, leaning over the desk, fast asleep. Her head lay in the crook of her arm, auburn hair falling over her eyes; a pen was still placed in between her fingers.

Loyal, transcendent, beautiful.

 _My Molly._

She brought him back to reality.

Quietly, Sherlock moved over to her, his hand brushed the hair from her eyes. The sensation was unfamiliar but welcoming in a world of ghosts.

A paper drew on the desk drew his attention, and carefully he pulled it to his eye level.

It was the toxicology report.

Molly had single handedly pinpointed the shoes to a three-mile radius in London's city centre.

His eyes rapidly began scanning the results, inferring much more than Molly could have in her field of pathology-

 _Ring ring –_

Sherlock jumped, attention turning to his pocket. Efficiently, he extradited his phone and placed it to his ear.

Sobbing met his ears.

' _Sherlock-'_ A familiar voice gasped, ' _Sherlock, my boy- God, they've- Oh my God-'_

Molly began to stir, moaning a little as she forced her head upright. She was met by Sherlock, pale, stiff as a gravestone. "Sher- Sherlock? Are you-?"

"What's happened to Mycroft?" The detective demanded, voice thick, eyes unwavering.

Molly snapped into action.

She didn't hear what was spoken on the end of the line, but she saw a transformation take over the man she loved. First, his cheek twitched, his jaw parting just a fraction, his eyes dropping to the floor, his shoulders tensed, then swayed, phone dropping to the floor. His eyes swam aimlessly, a boat swaying in a storm. Instinctively, Molly took his face in her hands.

"Sherlock- look at me, what's happened?"

Finally, his eyes found hers. Molly didn't think- _didn't breathe-_ Sherlock looked like half of his soul had just upped and walked away.

"Mycroft's dead."

* * *

 **09:26am.**

"Impossible." John expostulated, throwing the newspaper to the ground with a _thud._

Mycroft Holmes – Dead?

 _It was ludicrous._

"Doctor Watson," Placated Agent Chen, drained, "We need to consider-"

"No," Reprimanded John, "This," He jutted out a finger, " _This-_ is bullshit. You'd have a better job convincing me the Queen wishes to incite civil war with Scotland!"

"Chen, we have _no e_ vidence to suggest Mycroft is dead. We don't know his whereabouts for a start-"

"Yet we have no reason to consider him still being alive either, Anthea." Retorted the Agent, teeth flashing with anger. "We need to consider both possibilities seriously."

Mycroft Holmes' underground bunker, one of the most secure places in the United Kingdom, had never felt more so like a target had been placed on its back. The air was thick with failure, torrents of confusion and grief sliding into every crevice of it's alluding structure.

The paper's across London and the World released this morning had huge displays of Hat Detective Sherlock Holmes' plea for his missing daughter. The story was such an inundation of interest, hardly any person flicked onwards into the realms of politics and media news. Scarcer numbers read the obituaries.

But, there it was.

In _The Times._

John was at the brim of exploding with a series of foul language when Lady Smallwood entered the room. She looked _so tired._ Without word, she sat down, pulled on a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses and began to read.

' _Sir Mycroft Holmes MSt RVO_

 _Mycroft Holmes was an International Advisor to Queen Elisabeth II, accountant for trade unions both within the European Union and Eastern Nations. He was responsible for the coalition of-'_

With uncharacteristic drowsiness, she placed her elbows on the table, turning her head downwards as if requiring the extra balance.

'… _Assisted the Victorian Associates of Serbia by work with the House of Lords…'_

'… _Addressed former PM Tony Blair personally on matters of coinage…'_

'… _Died peacefully in his home in Clapham with his partner Matthew Johnson, civil partner of twenty-five years, also with his eleven-year-old son, Cesar."_

Lady Smallwood's eyes lingered on the last word. "Whoever wrote this doesn't know Mycroft at all," The words were rooted in the pit of her abdomen, "A partner and son? _Absurd_!"

"It's a reference to Twelfth Night," Anthea supplied, "Cesar meaning Cesario, the character Viola dresses up as when she's pageboy for Orsino." The brunette sighed, aware of every eye on her, "It's suggesting Mycroft's died with Viola by his side."

Gasps exploded in the room.

John's head fell into his hands. The only thing he wished was to be by his friends' side. _Thank God for Molly,_ he thought, _please be strong for him._

"It's a reasonable assumption that Matthew stands in place of Matteo." Lestrade explained with a grit of the teeth.

Agent Freya ignored the irate energy coming off her peers, "Since Sherlock went on air Matteo's face has been plastered all over the news. Who's to suggest he's walked into _The Times_ office and had this written?"

"It could have been Moran or Haggarty" Chen countered, "The press don't know about them."

"We need to interrogate whoever got this through the publishers."

"No need," John announced, eyes were fixated on his mobile screen, "Sherlock's already there. Get me a car. That's an order!"

* * *

 **The News Building, Bridge, London.**

 **10:04am.**

Growing up, Sherlock had always considered his brother a needless source of drama. The constancy of a _sibling_ was a relationship he had little need for. Mycroft had once said Sherlock's loss would break his heart. Yet Sherlock's heart wasn't broken. It was hollow, gathering dust, and rotting.

The absence of his brother was- Well, it just _was._ An emptiness.

The guilt, however, was painful.

It was his fault for going on air to the nation.

Sherlock had understood the counter risks. He had _said_ that Matteo could be so angry he'd get rid of Mycroft permanently. Yet, he'd done it anyway. He shouldn't have counted on assumptions of Matteo Conti's behaviour. Moriarty had been irrational the point of suicide, why he thought Matteo could've been a more predictable psychopath was beyond reproach.

He'd read the obituary.

He understood that Matteo was suggesting he had Viola.

It transformed the gaping hole in his heart to white-hot rage.

Had the song Eurus played suggested it?

There was no time for error.

Not anymore.

 _Matteo Conti would not get out of this alive._

The lift pinged as it arrived on the floor of _The Times_ offices. Sherlock flew out of the doors, deducing the route to his destination rapidly. He heard Molly jogging behind him. In his peripheral, he saw journalists and admin workers standing in shock at the man who had shook the very epicentre of their jobs in a day. They immediately started congregating.

Bursting into the office that dealt with obituaries, the detective bee-lined to a man of Polish descent, hands thrusting down on the table. "Who killed Mycroft Holmes?"

The journalist cowered.

Sherlock felt Molly grab his arm.

"I'm sorry- He's in shock. We're here about a security breach here last night."

The man floundered, looking between the pair. "S-Security breach? There wasn't one, Mr Holmes."

"Then how the hell is Mycroft Holmes published in your obituaries this morning?" The Detective snapped, "He's a _protected_ member of the Queen's Company. You are not legally allowed to release his identity. You've committed _treason_."

If the man was confused, now he looked thunderstruck. Hands flailing, he began to tap at the keyboard. Sherlock swore under his breath.

"The, uh, the report was filtered in at 3am last night."

"Irrelevant. By who?"

"I wasn't working-"

" _Who provided the report?!"_ He barked, hand slamming down.

"Sherlock," Molly soothed anxiously, "Please."

A lady on the next desk over stood, dark eyes serious underneath a light blue hijab, "I did. I'm Tahira Khara, events reporter. It was a personal family request that came in. The man died yesterday, apparently." A beat, "Is this to do with the missing girl, Mr Holmes? Is this man related to-"

"Who was it who came in?" Sherlock's eyes vivisected the woman in front of him. _Eleventh hour of a twelve-hour shift, working overtime, mother of four-_

"A young couple. The man said it was his cousin. The man provided me with a passport and documents of proof."

"Falsified. All of it." Sherlock's eyes focused on nothing in particular, "This is Moran and Haggarty. We can track their movements back from here." He flicked back to the woman, "I need to review the CCTV of this building-"

"You are not the police."

"I'm overseeing MI6 operations to find Viola Esposito-Holmes. Show me the CCTV." Demanded the detective.

A rush of interest filled the room.

"MI6 are working on the case of your missing daughter? Why do you need the secret services?"

Molly grimaced. He'd said too much. The press would not let this go.

Sherlock seethed, "Get me the CCTV."

"You don't have the authority-"

"We do!" Came a shout from a familiar voice. Everyone turned to see John Watson pushing through members of the press, Agent Freya at his heel.

Agent Freya lifted up a badge to the journalist professionally, "Freya Haugen, MI6. We need to review your CCTV, it is of immediate importance."

The journalist, Tahira, nodded immediately, directing them to a private meeting suite, and drawing the blinds.

The next four minutes were spent finding the specific footage from the night before on an archaic system. Sherlock paced rapidly, mind whirring, forcing down the possibility of his family being lost down forcefully.

John pulled Molly to the corner of the room and whispered. "Molly I'm so sorry you've had to do this in your own. …He looks terrible. How did he take the news?"

Molly shot him a look that merely said _You don't want to know._

"It's sick what they've done. If Mycroft is dead-"

"Right, that'll be all thank you!" Agent Freya smiled, green eyes flashing with warning at the journalist standing up from the computer desk. "Please leave quietly and if anything you heard in this room is repeated I'll personally see it on behalf of Queen and Country that you don't work in this industry ever again. Understood?"

Tahira, affronted, straightened up, and headed for the door. As her hand laid on the door, she pivoted and stared at Sherlock, "Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock bristled.

"I'll pray for your daughter," She told him sincerely, "I'll pray for her safe return."

To Molly and John's surprise, where they expected a harsh retort none came. Sherlock visibly softened. "Thank you."

The lady smiled, a sympathetic smile, and left the room.

Agent Freya, who hadn't been listening, was flicking through various cameras. "There."

Sherlock, John, and Molly all moved around to stand behind her. Footage played of a young man and woman entering the offices, hand in hand.

John stood straighter.

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

It was Wiggins and Viola.

"Christ," John cursed, "Wiggins? Wiggins has Viola? I'm going to _kill_ him-"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock responded flatly, brow slightly raised in shock, a plethora of emotions crossed his features, "If Wiggins is with her, he'll be keeping her safe. Matteo doesn't have her. Matteo didn't write the message… Mycroft isn't dead."

Just like that, the air became lighter.

"Wiggins knows exactly where they can't be seen. He's protecting her."

"He lied to you on the phone-"

"If it was necessary to keep her safe John, then it _doesn't_ matter."

"Sherlock," Molly began softly, "Why would they do this? Why would they oust Mycroft's name in the press with lies and riddles?"

"It's a message for Matteo," Sherlock replied, blue irises narrowing, "They're going after him. Viola is still fixated on resolving this on her own… I will not let her walk into a death trap. Not if it's the last thing I do."

* * *

 **22:54pm.**

It was like being in a theatre, the lights turning down the moment before the play began… The audience couldn't predict what was about to occur. A tangible darkness, where the impossible could grow from its depths.

Viola Esposito stood centre stage in the darkness. Nerves gripped her insides, doubts and questions and _pure unadulterated fear-_

There was no time for that, not anymore.

From a tall abandoned Victorian townhouse on the edge of Clapham, she stood by the window. Watching as the ground came to light as the sun went down.

She could do this.

She could save her uncle Mycroft.

She could convince Matteo to hand himself in.

Even if it broke her heart.

Quietly, she began to get changed. On the dusted hardboard floors laid an outfit, dark as the night. She silently thanked Wiggin's for his network helping without question. She removed her clothes, brown contacts long gone, and blonde wig left on the ground; She caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Viola admired herself inquisitively and settled on one thought.

 _You're not a ragazza from San Gimignano anymore, you're a woman off to war._

Like a soldier, she prepared her armour. The black dress dusted with silver fitted her like a glove, finishing just above the knee, cutting just above the curve of her chest. The shoes, rather than heels, were pumps. Gently, she tousled her hands through her hair. Days of madness resulted in it not being tended to. Thankfully the knots looked natural when they were co curly.

Lastly, she reached into her bra and pulled out the photo of her parents that had been folded. Viola looked between them, young, and herself in the reflected glass. Viola's expression faltered, and she blinked away tears. _I hope I make them proud._

"Viola?"

Jumping slightly at the sound, Viola turned on her heel. Wiggin's stood in the doorway, leaning against the aging wood. One hand kept wringing around; he was nervous.

Could she blame him, when they were walking into the jaws of a lion.

"Billy," Viola started cautiously, discretely putting the photo back, "Are… Are you sure you want to help me?"

He looked away.

He was terrified.

"If you wish to leave," Viola's voice cracked, because truthfully she didn't think she could do this alone, "I won't hate you."

Wiggin's shook his head, a sad laugh emitting from his chest. He looked at Viola, so much her father's daughter and wondered when his life had gone mad.

"Missus 'Olmes, I won't be leavin' you."

"…Are you sure?"

Wiggin's stepped closer and passed over a pink card: A fake driving licence. A false identity. She looked at it carefully then raised her light irises to meet his darker ones.

"Shezza always treated me well. 'E never judged me when others did. 'E trained me, got me mind up to speed. The 'Olmless network gives so many people purpose. I owe 'im me world, Viola, I do. Protectin' you against this mad man may be the biggest thanks I'll ever get to give 'im."

Viola, overwhelmed, stared down at her shoes. Wiggin's reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, and she realised she had never had a friend as perfect as Billy Wiggins.

Her stomach twisted with fear, her heart questioned the path she was about to take, but her head remained strong.

"Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Wiggin's eyes followed Viola as she made the ascent from the flat and headed down the steps. As soon as she was out of eyeshot, Wiggins whipped out his phone. Ignoring the slight tremble of his hands, and the sickness in his stomach, he hastily shot a text to Sherlock.  
 **  
LOCATION OBIT CLAPHAM  
BRING GUN  
VIOLA VATICAN CAMEOS MYCROFT**

* * *

 **22:59pm.**

The last few hours had been quiet.

 _Too quiet._

The soft silence as the ocean retreats from land, just before a tsunami rises into the heavens and destroys all in its path.

Since the obituary, attempts had been made to decipher hidden meaning within its words, but little came from it. It was random. No specific cipher. Nothing of total worth. Yet, they carried on working into the night.

Agents, Police, and Detectives alike.

Wiggin's phone was encrypted, untraceable. Sherlock admitted with compunction that it was him that had it done in the first place. Viola and Wiggins had disappeared off CCTV once more. Despite the efforts of the finest secret agents in the country, the public, and the police, the nearby areas had came up with nothing.

Sherlock then realised he had trained Wiggins _too_ well. His time destroying Moriarty's network had taught him to be invisible, and now Wiggin's was using Sherlock's techniques to keep Viola safe.

Sherlock was sat against a wall in Mycroft's office, hands laid against his knees. Agent Chen was deciphering the obituary with three other men around the desk. At the other side of the room, Lestrade was putting in his phone to charge, yawning. John was by his side.

Sherlock lay his head down and mentally walked through the obituary again, and again, and again. It had to mean something. Just as Eurus' song did. His whole body itched incessantly in the push for a solution, yet there was no relief.

Sherlock felt Molly's presence before he opened his eyes. The light sound as she pushed herself down to sit by his side, the soft _clunk_ of two mugs.

"The British way to war," He commented ironically, "As if all the cacophony of this case can be solved by teabags steeped in water and milk."

"Black, two sugars for you." Molly corrected with a smile.

"Molly Hooper you are becoming more observant every day."

She blushed.

"I love you." Sherlock admitted, before visibly retreating within himself. The words came right from his brain like the simplest thing in the world. He hadn't even _thought-_

Molly's eyes widened, clearly as shocked. She saw John and Greg becoming very still.

"Whatever happens," Sherlock continued, baffled he couldn't s _top,_ "No matter how dangerous, no matter the outcome. Just… Be aware. You've always counted. Eurus said I was incapable of such a human feat, but-"

 _PING_

The entire room fell silent. The sound had come from Sherlock Holmes. It was if they _knew._

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, father and brother stared into the heart of the woman he loved. The jolt in his chest was of pure fear. For in that moment, he realised he had so much more to lose. Eurus' violin strains filled his head. As he reached down for his phone, his heart pounded unnaturally against his ribs.

Molly saw the screen reflect in his eyes, the glow filling the irises like electricity going straight into his core.

"Sherlock?"

With a flourish, Sherlock shot to his feet. Emotion dissipated into the wind. "Viola's in danger. She's in danger _now_. She's going for Matteo on her own. Mycroft will be with them."

Agent Chen stood, "Where are they?"

"The location is in the obituary, in Clapham."

Lestrade nodded officially, "I'll call the met. All squadrons down to Clapham."

Sherlock hands flew to the side of his head, eyes dropping closed.

 _THINK._

Maps span around his peripheral, the words integrating with the roads, merging and rotating…

"… _Assisted the_ ** _Victorian_** _Associates- no, of_ ** _Serbia_** _by_ ** _work_** _with the House? of Lords…"_

" _Addressed former PM Tony Blair (Who?) personally on matters of_ ** _coinage_** _…"_

"… _Died peacefully in his home in_ ** _Clapham_** _with his partner Matthew_ ** _Johnson_** _, civil partner of_ ** _twenty-five_** _years, also with his_ ** _eleven-year-old_** _son, Cesar."_

 _Clapham… 25, 11, Victorian, Serbia, Work, coinage…_

John clasped his hands together tightly. Sherlock started muttering under his breath violently. "Come on mate, you can do this."

 _Serbia… Work… 11._

The roads turned, faster and faster.

 _Clapham, SW11!_

"What did he say?" Agent Chen demanded.

"SW11," John confirmed, "Send police to SW11, now!"

The maps narrowed inwards, road names shone across. Sherlock's hands reached out and started pulled them across, vivisecting the landscape.

 _Johnson… 25… Victorian… Coinage._

 _Johnson… John? 25! Victorian… Victorian building. Notable. John Victorian building. Paid Entry?_

 _The Grand._

 _25 St John's Hill._

 _SW11._

Sherlock's eyes flew open, he gasped for air. The location stood in front of him.

"The Grand, 25 St John's Hill," He explained rapidly, "It's a nightclub. The Victorian theatre. They're there. Viola wants to intercept Matteo in a public place."

 _Remarkable, brother mine,_ Mycroft's voice applauded

Lestrade pulled a phone away from his ear, expression horrified, "You've got to be joking! That place has a capacity for hundreds! Jesus, this is dangerous- so bloody-"

" _Kha nakha wanisa!"_ Growled Sherlock, in a voice not his own. With the stealth of a stallion, he stormed from the room, Agents running after him.

John's jaw had dropped. That wasn't Sherlock. It had been years, but John knew the language of the war he fought. Since when did Sherlock know Pashto? Since when was he so volatile?

 _Take good aim._

Sherlock's response to Lestrade warning against the danger to civilians was to be _careful_ with aim. John's blood ran cold.

Matteo had no chance of making it out of this alive.

"John?"

John blinked, it was Molly stood beside his, brown eyes petrified. John heard gunfire around him, felt the dust upon his clothes.

"Be a soldier." Molly instructed him, unable to keep the wobble out of her voice, "Be safe. For Rosie… For Mary."

A surge of emotion gripped him so powerful his legs almost caved. He pulled Molly into his arms, kissed her forehead, and then ran off after his best friend.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, off to war.

* * *

Molly was out of breath when she found Sherlock again. The underground bunker had transformed into madness. Men and women ran frantically, barking orders into earpieces and each other.

She emerged into the underground car park, pushing past several people. Sherlock was stood next to a car, changing into a bulletproof vest efficiently. Next to him, John was doing the same. Molly's stomach dropped as Agent Freya passed him a gun. Smoothly, he pulled his shirt back over himself. Cars were being prepared continuously, agents getting in, ready to go.

Molly's legs moved of their own volition, charging over by his side. Her world was spinning quicker than ever before.

"Sherlock," She took hold of his arm, and he flinched, "Please- be careful."

The man who looked back at her wasn't Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were darker, his face older, he read her without recognition. _God,_ Molly thought, _this is what he was like when he was dead, a thousand miles from home._

"Stay here," He ordered, baritone cutting, before turning on his heel and jumping into a car. John shot her a sorry look, climbing in. A moment later, they were gone.

 _He loves me,_ Molly assured herself as her eyes filled with hot tears _._ Looking down, her heart broke at his Belstaff laying abandoned on the tarmac. She picked it up, holding it to her heart.

Greg sprinted past her, opening his car door and clambering in. Without thought, Molly shot round and put herself in the passenger seat, bunching the coat on her lap.

"No, Molly- Stay here! It isn't safe."

"I will _not_ sit here whilst you all walk into danger."

Lestrade searched her face and found no ounce of weakness there. With a groan, he turned on the ignition, and with a screech of tyres, they disappeared into the night.

In the car Sherlock drove, his left hand was shaking as it reached the gear stick. He _would_ save Viola. He _would_ save Mycroft. In his mind, he saw Molly, he saw the way her expression broke. It had been for the best.

If he had shown her his heart in that moment, he would not have had the strength to leave her.

Cars sped down the streets, sirens blazed through the night, screaming danger throughout the city. Lights twisted and changed. Sherlock felt his whole-body pulsating with determination. Deductions sprouted of everything in sight.

 _Save Mycroft. Save Viola._

The car pulled up with a jolt that sent both men forward. John and Sherlock shared a look, one that communicated a thousand words, before they shot out of the car.

The building stood, domineering over the street.

As they barrelled towards the entrance, music filled their ears.

Sherlock's heart stopped.

It was the swan-song of Viola Esposito-Holmes.

Suddenly, he remembered.

* * *

 **... WELL.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed this very busy chapter. So excited to hear your thoughts.**

 **The next chapter is the big one, folks. Keep your eyes peeled. See you very soon...**


	21. Of Dust and Rainbows

**Well, Ladies and Gentlemen... Here we are.**

 **The main song featured in this " _Qui si attenda"_ , from Donizetti's opera _Maria Stuarda_. There is also reference to Mary's aria _"Deh! Tu di un'umile"_ Both are in the public domain.**

 **Thank you so much for your ongoing support. Hold onto your hats, this is the big one...**

* * *

 _Sherlock? Can you hear me?_

First there was music, then there were screams.

"John," Sherlock breathed, baritone dripping with revelation, "I think I remember."

The companionable space beside him remained silent, and Sherlock turned. John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock wasn't in London anymore. He wasn't anywhere.

Sherlock stood at the end of a dark corridor, lit by candles on rusted candelabra. Etchings of musical notes were engraved in the walls; scratched, disjointed, yet somehow beautiful. They were roots, the spring of the man he was.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the hunt for shadows.

He heard the scream of a child.

"Who are you?" Sherlock called into the darkness.

Suddenly, a boy with red hair scurried past. His hand wielded a gun, though Sherlock understood it should have been a sword. "Come on, Yellowbeard! They're coming for Viola!" He giggled, and disappeared into the mist, on the trajectory of the screams.

A feminine voice joined the cacophony of darkness.

' _I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree…'_

Sherlock began to run, Belstaff billowing behind him.

Suddenly, an exit emerged. A grand chestnut wood decorated with engravings of Dionysus and Apollo.

The detective braced the wood with both of his palms and thrust it open.

He was welcomed into the arms of a theatre balcony in chaos. It was a scene from the past, replaying with clarity.

A small boy in a striped fleece, grasping a plush bee in his hand was screaming. Screaming and screaming. Music from an orchestra was blazing around him.

On and on he shouted. "You! _You!"_

The boy was Sherlock.

Mycroft was glued into his seat, face covered in steel armour.

Nearby, a little girl was spinning, giggling, "It's just a silly show, Sherlock!"

The boy screamed louder.

Violet Holmes begged her son to quieten down.

"She did it, mummy! She killed Redbeard!"

On the stage, a lady dressed in black was stepping up towards a guillotine. Soft recitative fell from her lips. Her eyes often drifted to the balcony, yet she never swayed out of character.

"What show was it, Papa?"

Viola was beside him, dressed in the hospital gown from when they first met. She glowed with innocence under pale cotton. Her head was slightly tilted to the side, keenly examining the scene in interest. Her voice was clear English.

"…It was _Maria Stuarda_ ," Sherlock answered, watching his family fall apart in front of him, "Donizetti. The Italian Opera based around Mary Queen of Scots." His head turned to the stage, "The song Eurus played to me, it happened at the start of the opera. The composer laid the premise of hope, whilst the audience knew it would end in tragedy." The reflection in his face descended into confusion, "…I don't, I don't understand _why_ she'd use it. _Think!"_

"Do you remember what happened?"

"It was three weeks after Victor had vanished. My parents wanted to give us a distraction after the accusations. So, they took us to the opera."

"A tragic opera is hardly the place to take children after your friend vanishes." Viola omitted, contemplative.

"We were never a normal family."

Horace Holmes managed to grab a hold of the boy. Sherlock pummelled against his father's chest with tiny wrists, "She told me! Daddy! She _told me_ she killed Redbeard!"

Viola blinked, "What did Eurus do?"

The memories were coming violently, one after the other. "Eurus turned to me, as Mary Queen of Scots sang a prayer, and said-"

The little girl turned, voice echoing as Sherlock's lips formed the words. "Redbeard liked drowning. It's better than the guillotine. You can't laugh without a head. What a silly show."

The little boy escaped his father's arms. He never stopped screaming. His plush bee lay abandoned on the ground.

"Eurus had only sung her riddle up until this point. Deep down, everyone knew… I overheard Daddy threatening to call social services, but Mummy refused. I heard Dwight blame Mycroft... But everyone denied it. _I_ denied it. I looked and looked and looked for Redbeard," His voice cracked, grief splitting amongst the cliff face, "Then… When she said this, without so much of a flinch, I knew. She thought I was laughing. She thought I found it funny."

The boy's screams became so violent, he sputtered. Violet went to his side and helped but he was choking.

"I… I forgot about it." Sherlock breathed, "I suffered psychological trauma… This is where my problems began. With this opera. The musicians never stopped performing as my entire life fell apart."

"Papa," Viola started gently, "Why would this song be playing in the nightclub? The opening of this opera? Why would it personify Viola?"

 _The nightclub. Save Viola. Save Mycroft._

It sent a jolt to his heart, a call to reality. For a moment, sirens swept around him.

Suddenly, the lights changed beneath them. A company of performers took the stage. But they weren't strangers. No- They were figures from Sherlock's life: Mary, Moriarty, John, Molly, Sebastian Moran, The Woman, Mrs Hudson, and more distant shadows.

They sang, but in voices not their own.

" _Qui si attenda, ell'è vicina. Dalle giostre a far ritorno."_

Viola smiled, a knowing smile, "Here we shall await. Soon she will return from the tournament."

"They're awaiting Queen Elisabeth the First," Sherlock confirmed, "Viola… Are they awaiting you? Was this Eurus' message?"

"If that's the case, Papa, then tonight I will kill someone in my family. Queen Elisabeth kills Mary Queen of Scots."

"That's not right," His face puzzled over a plethora of expressions, "Mary, the foreign queen gets executed for laying claim to the English throne. Viola, are you the Queen? Related to English blood, imprisoned your family?"

"I can't answer that in your own head, Papa." A beat passed, and her whole demeanour shifted, "You need to focus. Can't you hear John?"

" _Sherlock," John begged, "We have to move. Can you hear me?"_

The boy fainted.

Eurus grinned, picking up the abandoned bee. With a flourish, she started to pretend it was flying. Her skirt tossed and turned.

"Every second you stay in your head Papa, the closer I get to dying. Or would Mycroft step in? Are you prepared to lose us both?"

His heart gripped in a vice. "…I don't want to lose you."

Viola pivoted to stare at her father, blue upon blue. Sherlock raised his hand and cradled her cheek. He memorised every detail on her face, every single ounce of himself on a new canvas.

 _My daughter._

 _Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes._

"Viola, I am so sorry I missed all of your life… I will never forgive myself for failing you."

" _Now is not the time to be in your mind palace! Jesus Sherlock-" John ranted in a hushed, desperate tone, "Wake up!"_

"You can tell me in person after you've saved me." Confidently, Viola took his hand off her face and held it between them. "Go, be a detective. Go and save your family. _Now,_ Papa." A beat passed, her glittering determination brighter than the lights on stage, _"The game is on."_

Abruptly, Sherlock's eyes burst open into the land of the living. The detective gasped and grasped John's arm as if waking from a nightmare, and the army doctor realised his friend may have just been in one. His expression was deranged, panicked. "Mary-"

John stiffened, "Sherlock?"

A couple of news reporters assembling cameras noticed them.

"Eurus is using Mary Queen of Scots, John!" Sherlock groaned, "I remember! Someone is going to die. Someone is going to allow an execution-"

"I don't understand-"

"We need to go!"

Sherlock barrelled into the building. As John started to track the trajectory of his friend, his only thought was of his daughter's innocent smile.

* * *

" _ **De' Brettoni la Regina È la gioia d'ogni cor" ~ "The British Queen is the joy of our hearts"**_

 **Nineteen Minutes Before**

Viola remembered the first time she and Matteo danced. The Summer was warm, the grapes and olives were full on their branches. A friend's party had taken them up to Montecatini Alto. Between the mountains, wine was poured, songs were sung, jokes were played. Viola had felt distant that night, her mother had relapsed three days before. Matteo had noticed the sadness in her eyes when other people hadn't been looking. He took her to a private space, and she confessed her hurt. He called her beautiful. She had never been called beautiful by a boy before. With a charming grin, he led her back to the party, and they danced hand in hand. The moon glimmered above their eyes. The strings in her heart had been pulled, and she'd never look back again.

Viola's heart was in her throat, and it was painful. Entering The Grand, she could only liken it to a ghost train.

Girls squealed, singing without key to songs she didn't recognise. Men tossed drinks back to their heart's content.

Viola thought of home, of the sweet wine and calm summer nights, and realised the stereotypes were right. British drinking culture was _something else._ Bitterly she considered that her parents met in a situation like this. Two addicts, surrounded by madness, clinging to each other for humanity.

Her heart was pounding.

Rapidly, her eyes searched for any sign of Matteo, her uncle, _anything-_ Yet there was nothing. There were _too many_ people. If this went wrong any one of these people could end up-

Someone knocked into her.

A girl with dark blonde hair in a pink dress stumbled, grasping the glass in her hand as if for protection. She shot Viola a sloppy smile, "Fuck me I'm so sorry!"

Suddenly, Viola was unable to breathe.

"You alright lovey?"

Wiggin's scanned the girl over a second and took Viola's hand. "She's fine, now piss off."

The girl looked annoyed, but rolled her eyes, and chased over to a group of friends.

"Viola," Wiggins spoke worriedly, grasping her hand, "You're shakin… We can go, we don't have to do this."

"No," She shook her head, "We just need to… Use the time."

With a forced façade of calm, she stepped away and headed to the bar.

 _Sherlock better hurry up,_ Wiggin's thought anxiously, _that girl knew exactly who Viola was._

The Grand, in the Nineteenth Century, had once been a theatre. On a usual night, the public could take to dancing in the stalls or balconies. Rainbow lights twisted over the frivolity. Occasionally, the dust became thicker, as if it was drifting down from the skies.

Wiggin's met Viola leaning over the bar, expression a mask of analytical concentration. A couple of metres away, two men had ordered a round of shots. Wiggin's effortlessly swiped two away. The men were too drunk to notice.

"Viola."

A pair of blue eyes flicked to him.

Wiggin's held out a small shot glass, eyebrows raised.

"What is this?"

"Dutch courage."

Viola frowned, taking it from his hand. The liquid was dark red. "I thought you don't drink?"

"Much," He clarified, "Other vices are better fo' me."

She frowned, confused.

"Cheers." Wiggins brought his glass to meet hers.

Biting her lip, Viola summoned courage and downed the drink in one. Suddenly, her throat burned. She slapped a hand on the bar, spluttering.

Wiggin's smirked, licked his lips, and popped his glass on the side, unmoved.

For a moment, they could have just been two friends. Yet Wiggins couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on them. As Viola's smile drifted, he realised she thought the same, too.

She forced a smile on her face, and grabbed his hand, "Come on."

With a playful tug, she drew him away.

"Where are we goin'?"

"We can dance!"

"Nah, Missus 'Olmes, that isn't me."

Viola pouted, pushed into his personal space, and tucked her head near his ear. The warm air from her danced on his neck. "I need to see. I need to be middle. Dance, Robin Hood… Dance."

Thank god it was dark. He was beet red.

Rather awkwardly, they moved amongst the young and ambitious.

Wiggins dreadfully tried to focus on _anything_ _but_ the smooth way her hips moved. The lights painted a rainbow painting across her skin. His mind was in overdrive. His deductions were weakened by the kaleidoscope of activity- everything moved _too fast_.

A shadow passed across Viola's peripheral.

Her cheek clenched, her chest raised up and down twice.

Then she grabbed Billy.

And she kissed him.

 _What the actual- ohmygodohmygodohmygod-_

Viola captured him possessively, hands landing either side of his stubble covered cheeks. Her lips moved passionately but definite, as if commanding instruction. Wiggin's floundered, he went to push her away but found himself gripping onto her waist for support. Intuitively, he moved against her, unable to stop- _to think-_ Viola was _magnificent_ , beautiful, wrong, _insane-_

S _hezza is going to bloody kill me!_

The electricity shot through his blood as a-

Something cold landed on the base of his skull, pressing, hard.

Terror spread down every vertebrae of his spine.

Viola hummed in annoyance, hand circling around his neck, then froze.

She pulled her lips away, foreheads resting against one another.

Wiggin's daren't open his eyes, because he _knew_.

Her pale fingers had ghosted the barrel of the gun that was placed against his head.

Wiggin's felt a tremor run through Viola's body. Wiggins, despite the music, heard her mutter a phrase. The Italian rang with no familiarity, yet it chimed like a mantra from her depth of her soul.

"Billy," She whispered, "Let go."

And he did.

Only then did he let his eyes open. She was flushed, dusted with glowing lights and painfully magnificent. Her intelligent gaze watched the spot behind his shoulder.

"Viola." A voice reverberated; a sickly, playful sound.

Billy knew who it was- _Of course,_ he did. It sent poison into his veins more damaging than the cocaine he'd used over the years. He wondered what Viola saw in that moment; Memories of a love she had once had? Or the hatred, the fear of his abuse, and the damage to her life.

"…Matteo."

From the complexity in her eyes, the distinction between fight or flight vibrating in the air, Wiggin's realised… She was seeing both.

"Send the gun down." Viola spoke, voice remarkably level, English incorrect but spoken as confidently as Shakespeare.

Of course, her first thought was to protect him. Viola Seraphina was glorious, and it hurt his heart.

The metal drew away from his skin as a sultry, yet terrifying voice hissed down his ear. "You touch her again, and it'll be worse than a gun, _Tramp_."

The words were far more painful than a bullet would have ever been.

All Viola saw was Matteo, the world around her was silent. His eyes were the same silver, hair just as brown, yet his jaw was set harder, his frame sturdier, adulthood eclipsing the teenager she had once loved.

 _For Mycroft._

She didn't hear what he said to Billy, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

As Matteo turned to her, the lights momentarily drifted elsewhere, and he was obscured in shadows. Viola's mouth went dry, she felt sick, she couldn't do this, _she couldn't-_

"You've lost weight."

Matteo stared at her like a starved animal.

Viola's hands shook violently, and she shoved them against the material of her dress. "Trauma does that to you."

He stepped closer- once, _twice-_ Then reached out towards her jaw.

 _Don't touch me,_ she almost begged. "Where's Mycroft Holmes?" Were the words she found, and for a moment, she was proud of her self-control.

"No greetings? I imagined I'd receive an apology. Upon your invitation, I doubted I'd find you in the arms of another man. Are you trying to make me jealous?" He laughed, a charming sound.

Viola shot a glance towards Billy, shame blossoming over her features. Wiggin's eyes were wide with confusion. She only realised then she was speaking only in Italian.

"It got your attention, didn't it?" She asked with forced affluence. Her heart ached. _Thank God Billy doesn't understand Italian._

"You know you only have to breathe to have my attention, Vi." There was a dangerous possessiveness in his eyes.

"Tell me where uncle Mycroft is."

"Oh, he's… Nearby. Good job on the obituary, by the way. Very clever. Your intelligence is as alluring as ever."

Viola was walking into a bullring dressed in scarlet. "Matteo… I've missed you."

Something primal flicked in his expression. "You've missed me?"

She nodded, blinking back tears, because despite everything – She had, and it _hurt_. "So much." It was the truth. "But this can't go on anymore. Please, you don't need Mycroft, you don't need the threats." Viola begged, voice trembling, "We can fix this, together."

Matteo's eyes held onto hers, and for a moment she felt he would concede. But with a flick of a head, it dissolved, and a cold skeleton laid in its place.

"Matteo," She implored, "Hand yourself in. Give up Mycroft Holmes. I'll go with you, I'll stand by your side… Please."

His face didn't budge, "If I was to do that, I would lose you _forever_ -"

"No," She cut in desperately, " _No…_ You'd get time, yes, but we'll show them you're a changed man." A small smile lit up her face, "Love makes people do silly things. I was wrong to doubt you all those years ago. I see now…" Her voice broke, "Our love is devastating, but it's true. I will wait for you." Tears smattered her pale skin.

Viola realised she didn't know where the truth was, and the lies began-

" _Liar."_

Viola blanched, "W-What?"

"If you really believed that, you wouldn't have run when you saw me. You would have come to my side."

"Special Agents were there, I was trying to save you!"

"You, Viola," His pupils dilated viciously, "Ran to protect your father. _Not me._ That… That vile man. The man who's only ever intent has been to take you away from me." Viola stepped back, but he moved into her space, towering, leering, "I can see it in your eyes. The care you have for him-"

"It's not true," She protested, "I came for you!"

"I am _the only_ man in your life," He spat, teeth bared, "Not him, _never_ him-"

"This has nothing to do with Sherlock-"

"Sherlock Holmes is going to pay for coming into your life, Viola. Look at you," He eyed her with a disdainful eye marred with pity, "You're bruised, starved, exhausted… I need him to suffer for hurting you!"

 _He's mad._

Viola's body perforated all hope of survival. Matteo was an open carcass. If she took a scalpel to his body, there would be nothing within.

Rough hands grabbed her, fingers pushing into the side where she'd bruised her ribs. She cried out, and somewhere, she heard Wiggin's yell. Suddenly, she was in the past, and Matteo was tearing at her clothes, holding her too tight, kissing her- She was suffocating, she was going to die-

"Steady, my Queen." Matteo purred, supporting her legs that started to cave, "The show is just getting started."

Matteo grabbed her wrists and began to drag her away. She screamed. Around her people ran to try and help, but the woman in the pink dress emerged, pointing a gun at every single person who tried. Civilians started trying to escape the theatre. Her legs hit something on the ground, and she heard Matteo growl before hoisting her up some stairs. Her vision was blurring, dizziness coming in waves. Lights scorched her eyes, and she realised she was on stage. Panicking, she scanned the crowd rapidly, desperately… Wiggin's had vanished.

She was on her own.

This time when her legs fell, Matteo let her drop. She wanted her _Papa. She wanted Sherlock._

Matteo licked his lips with a predatory grin and stepped onto the stand of sound decks. He stared at the chaos as a creature that wished to feast. With a sophisticated air, he procured a microphone, turned the music off, and addressed his audience in English.

"Why _hello_ London! Wow, it's so refreshing to have such a _gorgeous_ audience." He laughed, and it rattled like a stone being thrown in a cave, "Why now, _don't run_. You have a job to do. Get your phones and start streaming: Instagram, Facebook Live, whatever… This show is going to be so fabulous!" He flew his arms outright, "Whilst we await our special guest, let's have a song," He smirked, pressed several buttons, and suddenly string instruments reverberated around the hall, "This goes out to Holmes brothers… Courtesy of the _beautiful_ Eurus Holmes."

Viola watched in revulsion but could scarcely comprehend the English, nor the music that played. Fear ruled tyrannically over her body. She had been wrong, _so wrong-_

"P-Please," A small hand raised. His eyes dilated, black holes orbited by ash. "You don't have to do this."

Matteo sneered then, dipping his head down. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, but he merely ghosted her lips, brushing them. "For someone so clever, you really are blind."

Someone shouted behind her, and pressure plunged on the back of her head. Her world became darkness.

* * *

" _ **Quanto lieto fia tal giorno se la stringe ad alto" ~ "**_ _ **How happy will be the day that binds her to noble love."**_

Sherlock bolted through the darkness, unwavering, unthinking, driven only by a need to save his family, to destroy those who would bring it harm. Adrenaline pulsated through his veins.

The first sign of Mycroft almost stopped his heart but didn't stop his legs. The man was sat atop the venue stage, almost thin, dehydrated, and terrified. A ratty shirt hung loosely over his shoulders. Relief doused Sherlock's soul- _he's alive, he's alive-_ sang the voices in his head.

Sherlock saw every bruise, every drop of matted blood, every sign of deprivation. It set his nerves alive with acid. His gaze dropped downwards, and a sight so awful arrived in his vision he finally froze.

Viola, unconscious, propped up in her uncle's arms. Uncharacteristically, the politician was stroking the girl's hair, one hand against her pulse point.

 _Matteo is going to pay for this._

"Oh _Jesus,"_ Came John's voice, "Sherlock-"

But he was gone, plunging further into the crowds. Black rage filled his soul. The detective and doctor emerged, scarce metres from the stage. Sherlock gripped his gun and flicked off the safety. Bystanders cleared space, wielding phone cameras like weapons.

The music switched off.

"Ah! You're here!" A warm tenor voice cooed.

Mycroft's eyes raised upwards, and for the first time in days, brothers found each other. John saw the alertness shift in their eyes, the gentle cheek twitch in unison, before attention shifted. For them, that was a cry of joy.

With a professional grace, Matteo walked out from the wings, microphone held lazily near his lips.

Sherlock snapped the gun upright, assuring his aim, teeth bared and-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr Holmes." Matteo sighed, "You're being streamed right now, all around the world. If you shoot me, the whole world will see." The young man smiled, "You can secure the building now, folks."

Immediately, they heard doors fortifying shut, and the screams of young people still inside. How many? One – _Two hundred?_

Sherlock's knuckles were white against the barrel of the gun.

"What have you done to Viola?" The detective's mind ran rampantly, reading Matteo again and again, cataloguing weaknesses, strengths, _anything._

Matteo glanced at Viola in surprise, as if he'd forgotten her, "Woman are funny creatures, Mr Holmes… Malleable."

" _What did you do?!"_ Sherlock shouted, finger flinching against the trigger.

John almost restrained him.

Sherlock looked capable of committing a homicide.

"You're the detective," Matteo rolled his eyes, "You tell me."

A few seconds later, Sherlock listed her injuries with astounding detail, as if his intellect would save her life.

Matteo formed a falsified grin, "Well done, not bad."

"I must admit, Matteo Conti, these past days you have proven yourself to be a worthwhile adversary."

"Is that a compliment?"

"No." Sherlock smirked then, "It's an observation."

"Do you like the venue? Moriarty did always like the theatre… It's as if she knew, Sherlock." Matteo smiled angelically, "I owe an old debt to a friend, it just so happens to be mutually beneficial to me… I owe you a fall, ring a bell?"

John's stomach plummeted, and he resisted an urge to grab Sherlock and drag him the hell out of the building to safety.

Sherlock pouted, "Need I remind you that we're on solid ground?"

"No," Matteo ran a hand through his hair, "The real fall, Sherlock… The _real_ one."

Viola stirred. Mycroft craned his head to her ear. Sherlock's gaze flicked to them, then back immediately. Matteo didn't notice.

"I thought you were here to trade my brother for Viola." Sherlock deadpanned, "The fall, that _metaphor_ for the demise of British security is a lie. You have no information, I can see it. I'm going to walk out of here with my family, and you are going to let me. You try to escape, you get shot by the police outside. The whole world knows about you… The stalking, the sexual assault, the kidnapping and bargaining… If you think you have a life after this, you are sorely mistaken." A beat, "Moriarty would pity you. You're as stupid as the rest of them."

A silence followed a long, doubtful, empty sound.

Then Matteo threw his head back and howled like a wolf.

John stood straighter, and saw Mycroft shaking his head.

His whole soul dropped ten feet into the ground.

"What is it?" Bit the detective, eyes fiery yet bitterly cold.

"My, you sound like a Shakespearean actor!" The young man exclaimed, throwing his arms outwards with a hoot, "You're an _idiot!_ I don't _need_ any security information. You've released _everything_ yourself. The Holmes' empire is about to collapse and oh I _cannot_ _wait_ for the fall."

In the corner of John's eye, a small trail of dust fell from the ceiling.

* * *

" _ **Sì, per noi sarà più bella d'Albion la pura stella quando unita la vedremo della Francia allo splendor." ~ "Yea, fairer will we see Albion's pure star when she will be united to the splendour of France."**_

Molly held Sherlock's Belstaff coat tightly against her chest. Blue lights shone rapidly against her skin. The feeling was akin to drifting in the ocean during a strong tide, with no land in sight.

Surrounding her was chaos. Police were stationing themselves rapidly, barking into speakers. Young adults who'd escaped before the lockdown were clinging to each other desperately. Press vans had arrived, and now several news stations were broadcasting live.

Tears prickling her eyes, Molly found herself putting Sherlock's Belstaff on. It didn't matter what the press would say.

Because the man she loved was inside in danger, whilst she stood on the side-lines, useless.

Molly found herself watching the building searchingl _y._ Yet it stood still, stable, painting the landscape.

A bird stood atop the roof- _wait-_

 _No._

The bird grew, it wielded a crowbar, and swung down on something out of eyeshot.

A pale hand shot out to stifle a scream.

The floor fell out from underneath her.

"G-Greg!" Molly began to search amongst the jungle of terror, but she was staggering like a drunk, vision blurring- "Greg!"

Suddenly, Lestrade appeared, hands glued onto a telephone streaming the scene inside. He grasped Molly's lower arm. "Molly- Jesus, what's happened?"

"There's someone on the roof."

But there wasn't. They were gone.

"Molly, I can't be distr-"

"There was someone on the roof with a crowbar!" She gestured to the spot, "They were breaking something!"

Greg's eyes flashed with alarm. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

For a moment, Molly saw doubt. But then the detective faltered with such lack of cohesion he appeared bereaved. "Matteo said he would bring around the real fall-"

"What when-"

"Moments ago." Greg gasped, "…They're going to bring down the roof. Oh my God… They don't know. _Sherlock doesn't know._ We need to get everyone out. _Now."_

Automatically, he turned and bolted off into a swarm of policemen. Molly saw his arms gesturing frantically, heard the echoes of his shouts amongst the pandemonium. She saw attention begin to gather and calls for helicopters to be made.

Molly wasn't reassured.

She saw Rosie as an orphan, Sherlock's family without their sons, Maria's screams when she found out that Viola was- _no._

They needed to get out.

There was no time.

Not anymore.

Sherlock's Belstaff hugged her small frame, however the warmth didn't penetrate the ice in her spine, as she waited for the avalanche to fall.

She needed to tell Sherlock.

By any means necessary.

* * *

As Mycroft stared into the shadows, his fate became sealed. A strange feeling gripped his body, but logic prevailed. Hurt would diminish, danger could only be removed. It was a necessity, to save his family. He raised a single eyebrow to the darkness and saw a flash of metal move in response.

Viola was drowning. The water filled her lungs, her body, her brain, suffocating and pushing- It _hurt_. Warmth pulsated through her skull violently. Ringing screamed in her ears, and she grimaced, curling in on herself-

"Viola Seraphina," A voice whispered, punctuated against her ear, "You're alive. You've been hit on the back of the head. Don't move. Stay still."

Viola's stomach rocked, she heaved-

"Breathe. Don't vomit. Bodily urges are a weakness. Don't give into them."

 _Who is that?_

"It's Mycroft Holmes, Viola. Don't open your eyes. Don't move."

Her whole body ached to protest, but she found she was too weak. Around her, she started to hear faint voices. Events started to flood violently into her memory.

"If you understand I need you to tap twice against my wrist." Viola, still as a stone, moved one digit in succession, twice. "You are going to stand. You are going to tell Matteo to stop the madness. You are going to tell him you love him." She flinched, and Mycroft gripped her tighter, "Get him behind you. When you're ready, I need you to shout Vatican Cameos. That's the signal. Do you understand?"

Viola trembled.

His voice dropped a level, "I can get Matteo out. He will serve a life sentence, but this doesn't have to be the end for him."

 _You were always a bad liar, brother mine._

"You need to trust me. Shout Vatican cameos. If you don't, far too many people will die. Be strong, Viola Seraphina. Be a Holmes."

A long moment drew out without a response, but then one finger landed, and then another. If he had been able, he would have cried out in relief.

" _You're an idiot! I don't need any security information. You've released everything yourself. The Holmes' empire is about to collapse and oh I cannot wait for the fall."_

Sherlock teemed with tension. He felt every single eye, every camera, every heart beating around him.

Matteo stood, a black hole, " _You_ have stood here, and called Mycroft your brother. _You_ told the press that you were working alongside the Secret Services. The world right now will be discovering who Mycroft Holmes is. Putting you two together will shake the world of terrorism. I never named your brother, I never named Viola. _You did this._ Moriarty knew you would… You're far too emotional, weak, just like Viola."

"Viola isn't weak." Spat the detective, mind crumbling at just what may have been the worst mistake of his life. _Don't let him see, stay alert._

"She has a feisty front, indeed, but Moriarty saw through her façade. As did I."

John felt a wave of heat rush over him. "Moriarty met Viola?"

Sherlock remained silent, with a mask of blinding fury. That _bastard_ had seen her, seen her heart and morphed Matteo into the one person she would love. It was Moriarty. _Always._

Matteo chuckled, "Once. Although I doubt she'd remember it." He gestured over to Viola's limp form, "Jim knocked her over. When he offered her a hand, she told him to fuck off."

Despite everything, Sherlock sniggered. _That's my girl,_ he thought, with a primal flaring of pride.

"Mm," Matteo mused, "She truly is remarkable. A supernova of intelligence against passion. You should see her in throws of passion, Sherlock, how she-"

"That's enough." Bit John.

The man pulled a face of mock offence, "Sorry! Does our fair detective still cower at the thought of sex? Oh," Matteo whacked his forehead, "I apologise. He's with the corpse lady now, isn't he?" He twisted his head to the side, with a sneer that bore his teeth, "Doctor Hooper and Sherlock sitting in a tree, _F-U-C-K-I-N_ -"

" _Matteo!"_

All heads turned at the shout, and jaws dropped at the sight of Viola Seraphina, stood up. Her makeup smudged down her face, her clothes creased. She swayed on the spot, neck muscles betraying nausea, but she remained resolute. A warrior. _A survivor._

Sherlock caught Mycroft's gaze, followed his eye line, and understood.

"Has the queen awoken from her slumber?" Matteo asked with feigned fondness.

"…You shouldn't have hit me," Viola stated him in Italian, "You didn't have to. I know what you want to do to Sherlock…"

Matteo turned to her, world forgotten, stars blacked out with lust. "…Aren't you afraid?"

"Yes," She nodded, and bore him an honest look of fear, "But I know you can save me. I'm sorry… I am, so sorry."

She stepped closer.

"What's she saying?" John hissed, and Sherlock's arm shot out in warning.

"I just got so overwhelmed... I love _you_. Your love is terrifying, maddening… But I can't resist it. Do what's needed to Sherlock." Viola didn't move her blue orbs from his silver ones, they became planets forming their own galaxy, "Kill him. If I have you, nothing else matters."

 _You can do this. Be strong, Viola._

Sherlock wanted to scream, to rip Viola away. He understood what Mycroft intended, what he could see from the stage that Sherlock couldn't. It was wrong- so _wrong_ \- and Viola would never forgive him. _But this is what Eurus predicted._

Matteo kissed her, a dam bursting in his chest. Viola was his. _Only his_. Desire consumed his. Viola clung onto him like a lifeline, knowing she was about to save his life, even though it broke her heart.

"Dance with me, Matteo."

"The whole world is watching."

"I don't care."

Matteo laughed and called for music. The young woman in the pink dress dashed out from the wings and set the song from _Maria Stuarda_ playing. It was Haggarty, and she curtseyed at the couple before tattling off stage.

The music wasn't suitable. The singers appeared to be clawing for escape, the strings drawing trees from their roots, the percussion sending tremors into the earth's crust.

"John," Sherlock hissed, "Go to Mycroft, release him. Do it now."

John blinked, "Are you sure?"

"If I go Matteo will shoot me. Go. Now. Whilst they're distracted."

John's eyes betrayed doubt, but with unmovable loyalty, he abandoned his post and started to make his way to the politician.

"Do you remember the song, Viola?"

Matteo moved gently, intimately, in complete contrast to the sounds around them. Viola choked in a breath, afraid to look upwards, for fear sentiment had broken through the cracks of his insanity. "No."

A small kiss landed on the stop of her hair. "It's _Maria Stuarda_ , Donizetti. A wonderful opera that Jim introduced me to… He said it reminded him of you. Maria Stuarda, the Queen who grew up in a foreign land… Everyone thought she would unite nations, yet her family prevented her, they killed her for treading on their toes. Sherlock will do that to you."

"I am not a story… I'm not a part of English history-"

"But you are," He explained, "Eurus Holmes said so, and she's the cleverest person in the world."

Sherlock's heart was in his throat. Had Eurus known Mycroft would make this decision?

 _If Viola is Queen Elizabeth, then she's about to sign the death warrant of the person invading her family. Someone was waiting in the wings, someone was going to kill Matteo on her command._

Sherlock watched his daughter moving in an obedient trance, non-the-wiser to her fate.

Mycroft was about to make her complicit in a murder she didn't understand.

Viola and Matteo waltzed, the anthropologist and the madman. John frantically removed Mycroft's shackles.

Viola began to turn in Matteo's embrace, back against his chest. He buried his head into the crevice of her neck, kissing it, claiming her. The whole world was watching them. But that was exactly why.

Viola was a puppet, enraptured in the arms of its master. But was that Matteo or Mycroft? The lines were too slim.

 _To save Viola,_ Mycroft told himself, _to save her._

 _To save Matteo,_ Viola reminded herself devotedly, _to save him._

"No," Sherlock muttered, walls breaking, "No!" He launched himself up the steps onto the stage.

 _"Vatican Cameos!"_ Viola yelled, jumping aside.

A crack filled the air.

People screamed.

Viola felt a force against her body, knocking the air from her lungs.

For a moment, all was silent.

Stage lights, like rainbows, swam above her.

A thump on the floor, as Matteo slumped to the ground.

 _Dead._

John Watson moved on instinct. He fell at the young man's side, knees entering a puddle of sickly redness, reaching out for a pulse point. The absence sent a chill down his spine.

It had been a close-range gunshot from above. John knew it. His looked at old balcony in the wings and saw only darkness. Who had pulled the trigger?

Mycroft stared at the scene of horror before him, edging in deathly quietness. _He'd saved his family._

Suddenly, he was accosted by strong palms. Sherlock was in front of him, checking him, examining him with devilish scrutiny. Mycroft, overwhelmed, felt dizziness start to fill his skull. Sherlock secured his upper arms, "Don't go fainting on me, brother mine. Anthea has lemon cake with your name on it."

"There's a lack of blood in my peripheral nervous system" Mycroft rasped.

"Who did it, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded, _"Why did you make Viola a pawn?"_ Was his real question, but there were too many cameras, too many witnesses. It took all his strength not to go ballistic.

He was furious.

" _Sherlock!"_ John shouted, breaking the men from their reverie.

They turned.

Besides a dead man, sat a young girl in mourning. The lights cast them in shadows. It seemed almost spectral, staged. But this wasn't a play. There was no music. Sherlock's daughter had just witnessed the death of the first person she had ever loved. Whilst his first instinct was to patronise her for becoming so emotional over an abhorrent man, he couldn't. Because if that was Molly… He would shatter, like glass, no matter the circumstances. Sherlock observed Viola's face start to crumble, her blue eyes shimmering with water, and he realised she _was_ glass, and she was cracking. An indecipherable weight dragged her face, contorting it, until she sobbed in pain.

It was the most horrific sound Sherlock had ever heard.

"Who was it?!" Viola shouted, blistering tears falling down her cheeks, "Who?!"

Viola looked so small, so innocent, so _broken,_ and it caused his heart to age fifty years in a moment.

"Viola..." Sherlock started, voice quiet. _There was nothing he could say. Nothing._

"Who did it, Papa?!" She begged again, and then started rocking, mumbling no over and over.

John rubbed her back reassuringly talking to her gently, and Sherlock was eternally grateful for his best friend.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began, desperate to change the subject, to hear a _nything else,_ "How do we get out of here? Where are the police?"

A deathly expression crossed over the politicians face, "The police won't be coming in… It's too dangerous."

"What-"

As if on cue, a large, creaking sound, echoed through the building. The sound vibrated, as a ship hitting an iceberg. John saw young adults' recoil, mortal fear awash on their faces.

"Oh my God…" John whispered, "What was that?"

Mycroft staggered, and gripped onto Sherlock's arm. "You didn't notice, did you? Someone's missing… Whilst we've been here, Sherlock, Moran has been on the roof. He's dislocated the timbers. We have minutes until the roof collapses."

Sherlock's cheek clenched. Inside his mind, an earthquake destroyed floors.

"…How many people are in the building?"

"Including us, I can see two hundred and thirty-six. But there may be staff hiding."

Sherlock Holmes, a man who'd dismantled huge crime rings, had been through building collapses before. But as he stared out and saw the plethora of terrified young people searching his eyes for hope a petrifying thought stopped him dead.

 _There's too many._

Rapidly, he began to search for solutions, over and over, but his brain was short-circuiting. Viola's cries were distracting- _he couldn't think._ He needed Molly. He needed-

" _Sherlock!"_

 _BANG_

A shot rippled through the darkness.

Sherlock dived to the ground, taking his brother with him.

Suddenly, hands grabbed Sherlock's back and shoved him, hard.

John's instinct kicked in. He lifted Viola upright, pulling her backwards in a strong hold she couldn't free herself from. The colour drained from his face.

It was Ahmed Moran.

Sherlock and Ahmed tumbled in a flurry of commotion. One man trying to pin the other down. Shouts sounded from the detective. With a yell, Sherlock threw himself on his front, reaching out for his gun desperately.

Ahmed was quicker.

The man snatched it, and suddenly Sherlock had a barrel against his head.

"Papa!" Viola screamed, kicking out against John.

Ahmed dragged Sherlock to his knees, one palm gripping his collar, the other holding the gun to his head. "Stand!"

Sherlock complied.

John suddenly had a sinking sensation that they'd been after the wrong man.

Inside a safe house, Mrs Hudson was clutching a baby to her chest, praying. Outside The Grand, Lestrade was screaming at his operatives to do _something_. Inside Sherrinford, a patient was smiling.

From the crowd, Sherlock thought he heard a familiar voice shout his name.

Sherlock felt hot air ghosting the bottom of his neck. Ahmed Moran, scarcely a man, had come for Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock Holmes had killed his father. A horrid emotion filled his chest, and he thought he may combust. It took him a long time to find words, but the ones he found were a comfort. " _As-salaam alaikum"_.

John saw the young man, with dark skin and darker eyes betray a wave of grief. Whilst Matteo had been bound by an emotionless love, Ahmed was grounded by pure, unadulterated rage. He was fragile, vulnerable, and dangerous. _God, Sherlock, be careful._

"Don't you dare," The boy spat, "Speak to me in the tongue of my faith."

Sherlock's eyes fell closed momentarily, "Your father always made me greet him in the Islamic style, Ahmed- regardless of faith. Always. You know that. You grew up with that."

The ceiling groaned, sobbing, as if one could hear the building tearing.

"You do not have the right!" Susurrated Ahmed, pulling Sherlock's back tightly against his chest.

John straightened at the violent tone, prepared to intervene.

"John," Viola whispered, "What is happening?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly lifted to the roof. A crack had appeared, followed by a long train of dust, shimmering against the stage lights.

"You've… You've damaged the internal structure of this building." Sherlock breathed, it was a statement.

"A final fall." Ahmed explained hotly, "Ironic, isn't it? How all of you focus on the brain instead of the brawl? You all went after the deluded psychopath. Matteo was an _idiot_."

Sherlock fisted his hands together, "You're hardly Moriarty. The network is gone."

"Moriarty never died… Not _really_. You took his mortal body, sure. But his plans remained alive. The children of his associates remained alive. Grudges lived _. I lived_." With a flourish, Ahmed kissed Sherlock's cheek, and Mycroft moaned in panic uncontrollably. "You'll never escape us… Perhaps one day we'll drug Martha Hudson, perhaps one day Rosamund Watson will vanish from school," Ahmed kissed his cheek once more, "Perhaps Molly Hooper will be approached by a gang of men on the way to her nightshift-"

Sherlock let out a guttural moan, and involuntarily pushed away from Ahmed's grip, but the latter held him tighter.

"Amazing how love can cloud a genius's judgement." He turned his gaze to the high roof in wonderment, "Such an old building… It'll come down, so soon, I can feel it in my bones…"

The man had furious anger in his eyes, a raw, unflinching insanity.

 _I did this to him._

Sherlock saw Sebastian's last moments play out like they'd happened moments before, and deep guilt enveloped his soul.

Sherlock's words appeared suddenly as if forced from the recesses of his mind, desperate for release. "…I'm sorry about your father."

Ahmed flinched, clearly surprised. His chin jutted out and he pressed the gun closer.

"Sherlock-" John gasped.

Ahmed breathed in heavily, "You know… When Moriarty died dad was crushed. He _wept_. I want you to feel as crushed as he felt. You're a murderer. And now the whole world will know. You'll die in shame, tarnished… You ripped dad from our family. I want to watch you be ripped from yours."

Mycroft's head fell into his hands.

Sherlock felt his mind palace flood with dark liquid.

It was his fault.

All of it.

"Ahmed…" He began, voice grating, "You can do what you want me, alright? Just let everyone else go before the roof collapses. Please."

A smile started to spread, a candle illuminated in the dark irises. "Am I really being begged by Sherlock Holmes? Again?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded, earnest, "Let my family go."

"Papa, no." Viola chocked, and John held her tighter.

A groan from the building occurred, closer, louder.

"I tell you what, Sherlock." Ahmed leered, pressing the barrel of the gun to hard against Sherlock's head it would leave a bruise, "I'll let everyone go, as you said. But you stay. Then after you're gone, when they pull your body from the wreckage… Perhaps Molly Hooper will conduct your post-mortem. She'll be the one to cut out your heart. She might even keep it. She might burn it."

A scream built in Sherlock's chest, unnatural and painful, and he fought against it. He would not show his weakness. He had to be noble. For her.

"You promise you won't go near them, my family. Please. If I stay."

"…I promise."

Sherlock saw Molly. He felt her kisses, the longing, _the love_.

He'd always found self-sacrifice easy. He wasn't important. A blip on the normal strains of humanity. Naturally, he would lay down his life for his friends without question. But knowing he'd be giving up on _Molly_ … He found his throat thick, and he was petrified.

He didn't want to go.

"So, what will it be, Sherlock? I'll let everyone else go… If you stay, no one will come for your family, you have my word."

A patch of dust drifted onto his shoulder, followed by another creak from the heavens.

With a vulnerability he had never felt, he bowed his head in surrender.

Mycroft swayed.

"Ahmed… Do understand that your father's death was the most regretful thing I have ever done in my life. I knew about you, and your sisters. But he had killed so many people, caused attacks I don't imagine you even know of. I had to choose humanity over him. I _had to_."

"Sherlock," John pleaded, "Don't. _Please."_

The boy fisted the gun in his hand, lips trembling as he forced emotion aside. "Is this your attempt at a final confession?"

"Allow me that, please." Sherlock sunk to his knees.

Ahmed let him drop. Mycroft let out a disjointed sound.

"Make it quick."

Sherlock's palms lay flat on the ground, attempting to stop the trembling. He imagined Molly alongside him, murmuring encouragements in his ear.

"Viola… I am so sorry I have failed you." He couldn't look at her, couldn't let the dam break. His words were Italian, but smatterings of English escaped through. He couldn't think enough to construct the words. "I wish I'd have had the opportunity to be your Papa. You're remarkable. It appears my presence in your life has only brought heartbreak and pain. But I want you to thrive… Don't settle for ordinary, you're anything but."

Viola started calling to him, broken. But he didn't listen, he c _ouldn't._

"Mycroft, for god's sake, please keep an eye on your weight." A devastated splutter formed on the politicians face, ice breaking around him, "I mean- I don't wish for you to leave this world early. I know you are not ruled by your heart, and sentiment is a weakness… But look after our family, provide for them. Please."

There was no response. Mycroft was trying to make it easy.

Sherlock groaned and took several audible breaths before speaking. "John… Know that I love you. You need to live, for Rosie. I will not allow you to sink as you did all those years ago. You never doubted I was capable of emotion, despite the way I conducted myself. Take it as a-"

 _CRACK_

" _Move! Everyone out! Now!_

"There's no time! _Go!"_

" _Run!"_

In a split second, the silence became screams.

Sherlock jolted against the sound and was suddenly hoisted upright.

"Wiggins!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"No time for pleasantries, Shezza! The ceilin' is gonna go! You got ninety seconds at best!"

A sound like of rocket breaking apart sounded overhead. Discombobulated, the detective span-

Ahmed Moran lay unconscious on the floor behind him. _What the-_

"I knocked 'im out! I'll take 'im! Go grab Viola now!" Wiggin's yelled.

Sherlock stepped back, eyes saucers of shock. _Focus!_ Instantly, he bolted towards Viola. She kneeled on the floor, arms cradling Matteo's paling face. "Don't make me go! Don't make me-"

"Sherlock!" Cried John, visibly panicking.

Sherlock rounded in on him, "Go. Help Mycroft, he's intensely dehydrated. Get as many civilians out as you can as you go. That's an order!"

By pure reflex, John saluted, with a firm stamp of his foot, then raced over to the disorientated politician.

Sherlock deduced Viola quickly. God, she was a state. "Please don't make me-"

"Viola," Sherlock crouched beside her, "We need to go. There is no time for emotion. _Not now._ "

"I can't leave him! It's my fault, it's my-"

"Stop being stupid!" He snapped, then cursed inwardly.

Far away in the stalls, a chunk of ceiling fell inwards. Moonlight shone through the hole.

"Viola, listen to me. We will move whether you like it or not." He grabbed her face in his hands, and _God_ , she looked so young.

Her bright blue eyes refused to tear away from Matteo's body, "Papa I killed him-"

"No," He pulled her to his chest, and kissed her hair, the gesture felt so unnatural but necessary, " _No._ Come on. Viola, there's no time. I don't want you to die. Please. _Please."_

Suddenly, he shot to his feet, holding her in his arms.

Another chunk of ceiling plummeted to the ground, dust burst into the air.

The lights went out.

Viola protested, kicked, screamed. But Sherlock sprinted. _Get her out. Get her to safety._ He leapt over crumbled brick, shouting commands to teenagers struggling through the doors. Constantly, he looked back for people, mind deducing rapidly for signs of people left. And saw no one.

As he neared the door, a sickening sound of timber ripping filled his ears.

" _Za che zu!"_ He bellowed.

A final flurry of movement and he exploded through the doors. It was like emerging from deep water. The air was dry, thick, but he drank it open in huge gasps. He kept running and running and didn't stop. Ahead, he saw John sprawled opposite Mycroft. The sight of them caused his legs to collapse, and finally, he fell, unceremoniously putting Viola on the road. A huge rumbling sound emerged from behind them, followed by a deafening crash as the ceiling fell inwards. Instinctively, Sherlock pushed himself to a seated position, bent over his family, valiantly trying to protect them from the ash, the glass, the smoke.

 _They're alive. They're safe._

An unmeasurable amount of time past until the earth began to stir again. As the dust settled, the sound of photographers' cameras began to fill the air, shortly followed by fresh sirens and cries for help.

Sherlock coughed against the dust, dragging himself to a better position.

"Sherlock are you alright?" John wheezed, pushing himself to his knees.

"Fine. Mycroft?"

"Still in existence." Huffed the politician through bleary eyes.

"Viola?"

After a moment, Viola opened her eyes. They shone brighter than the police car lights reflecting around her. Sherlock almost cried. He was so grateful she was alive.

The sound of rapid footsteps approaching sounded in their ears, and they turned to see a plethora of medics coming to their aid. Sherlock batted them away, pushing himself to his feet. His shirt was ripped, his face scratched, his hair dusted grey, his mouth dry as a desert. But he was alive.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned his head with a wince, to see Lestrade moving through the crowd of young people. Relief hit the detective first, and despite everything, he smiled. Lestrade looked normal, silver-haired, flustered, and professional. But as he got closer, he saw an urgency; The lines on his face were deeper, the sweat too pronounced.

 _Something was wrong._

"Sherlock-" Lestrade panted, "Are you alright?"

"What's wrong?"

"Have you seen Molly?"

The world turned on its axis.

" _What?"_

"She went after you, Sherlock. Channel 4 caught her managing to get through one of the toilet windows-"

 _Molly's missing._

"-She found Wiggins and he came out-"

 _No no no-_

"And brought in MI5 through there. But we can't see her. Was there anyone left inside?"

He couldn't breathe. The broken building exploded partially into flames overhead. Sherlock's mind palace exploded in the same manner. It burned. "She's still in there!"

" _Hang on_ \- Sherlock we don't know that. There are hundreds of people outside!"

The words didn't penetrate the fire. Orange reflected against blue in his irises. "…No, she's still in there. I know it-"

He went to move, and Lestrade seized his wrist. "Sherlock it's not safe. The roof is still collapsing! You are _not-"_

" _Let me go!"_

The words were a roar, violent and terrifying. With a valiant cry of a warrior, Sherlock ripped his arm away and charged forward. Police tried to grab him, he shoved them aside. Nothing could stop him. Molly was _in there_ -

 _Not Molly, please- Not Molly-_

Mycroft saw the commotion. Everyone did. The cameras did, and so did the world.

As Sherlock charged into the ruins, all Mycroft saw was a little boy in a striped fleece, plush bumblebee in his hand, disappearing into the darkness.

A minute stretched.

Then another.

The world dawned into silence. John gripped Mycroft's hand and for the first time in his life, he was grateful for the human contact. Tangible energy bound humanity, as they prayed for Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on, you git, come on." Muttered John impatiently.

A huge bang followed by the sound of collapsing cement suddenly echoed. And people gasped. Viola cried. Mycroft didn't blink.

Another minute passed.

"Something's wrong," John spat anxiously, "I need to go, I need to-"

Mycroft caught him, dangerously tight. "Don't. Think of Rosamund."

Out of the quiet, there was a whisper, a breeze brushing autumn leaves. A moment later, another sound, like a mole pushing through soil. A rustle of a lamb moving through long grass. Then, suddenly, a horse, galloping, leaping, screaming into daylight-

Sherlock exploded from the shadows, large gash on his forehead. He was sprinting, screaming-

" _Help me!"_

In his arms, was Molly Hooper, limp, wrapped like a doll in his Belstaff coat.

NHS staff ran, but John ran faster, barrelling through the crowds not missing a single step. His body was electrified. Just as he beelined towards his best friends, Sherlock fell to his knees, and frantically laid Molly out in front of him. He didn't stop shouting for help.

"John!" Sherlock chocked, "I got it wrong, she's Mary. She's _Mary_!"

His eyes dropped to Molly's chest, and his heart skipped a beat at the amount of blood coming. Immediately, he began to press on the wound. Sherlock was frantic.

"Eurus thinks Molly is invading the family! Haggarty stabbed her, she left her there to die and I-"

"Sherlock let me work!" John snapped, forcing aside _everything_ that wasn't saving Molly's life. Two other Doctors ran over with first aid bags, and they forced Sherlock to the side. But he was persistent. He continued cradling her head and calling her name as an oxygen mask was forced over her head. John caught his eyes for a fraction of a second and swore he saw Sherlock's entire world shattering around him.

A minute later they ripped the top of her shirt to assess the injury. Sherlock watched them like hawks, gaging their every reaction, something to prepare him in some way-

 _He was wrong. He was going to lose her. He was going to-_

John frowned brow knitting, staring a moment too long. Then the other doctors moved inwards around him, and he sat back, shell-shocked.

"John," Sherlock rasped, "What is it?"

"…It's a flesh wound, Sherlock." John breathed, face finally breaking out in reassurance, "Haggarty has shit aim. Molly is going to be fine."

The words were wanted so much, his brain struggled to compute them, analyse them for lies, and tell him the solution. John watched his friend stare at him, completely dazed, crumble from terror into abhorrent exhaustion. John pushed away and let the other Doctors work, crawling to Sherlock's side over the tarmac. His head slumped onto his best friend's shoulder, drained.

"Everyone's safe, Sherlock. You've done it. …Thank you."

Through dark curls, ash, and dust, Sherlock finally broke down, sobbing with relief into his bare hands.

" ** _Festeggianti ammireremo la possanza dell'amor." – "Then in celebration will we admire the power that belongs to love"_**

* * *

 **...Well, there we have it.**

 **Do you all have questions? I imagine so!** **I promise everyone will get their happy endings.**

 **This chapter was a mammoth task to construct, and I'd love to hear your feedback. Fire away!**

 **See you at the next one...**


	22. Procuring Goldfish

**Hello everyone!**

 **Thank you so much for your support, I was _flawed_ by your feedback from the last chapter. :-)**

 **Settle in, grab a cuppa, off we go...**

* * *

 _Where are they taking her? John!'_

 _'We'll have to get her into surgery before she loses too much blood'_

 _…_

 _'Wiggins! What are you doing here? …Who's that?'_

 _'It's Ahmed Moran. Arrest him, Lestrade. See 'e gets what 'e deserves.'_

 _…_

 _'Right- We've situated Mr Holmes upstairs, Doctor Hooper is in surgery, Miss Esposito-Holmes is resting.'_

 _'I don't… I don't know who to be with.'_

 _'Sherlock, you're bleeding. Let a Doctor see you-'_

 _'No, John! You're a Doctor, act like one!'_

 _…_

 _A mother cried, cradling her daughter's head. A step-father solemnly held her hand. Two friends lingered, clinging to each other, wondering how the world had collapsed around Viola Esposito-Holmes in the space of a couple of weeks._

* * *

 **King Edward VII's Hospital, Marylebone.**

"Sherlock- Look at me. Please, mate."

John sighed, patience wearing as thin as the dust on his clothes.

Sherlock remained void.

It was a peculiar place, John thought, From The Grand, Mycroft Holmes' family had been transferred to King Edward VIII's Hospital on his command. _The Ritz_ of medical care. The Royal Family had frequented the private hospital for decades alongside London's elite. A bubble away from the greedy eyes of London.

In a waiting room which could only be considered a parlour with its plush red seating, fireplace and ornate globe, sat Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, still clad in bulletproof vests and drenched in ash. The Doctor was painstakingly applying antiseptic to his best friend's forehead.

John craved Mary's arms around him so brutally it hurt.

Sherlock's eyes were fixated hypnotically on a television displaying BBC news. The Grand's footage replayed almost on loop. From witnesses' films to the buildings fall. Of Molly managing to get inside, to footage of Sherlock emerging, distraught, pathologist in his arms.

From the proximity, John felt he could comprehend the machinery of his friend's mind coming to term with the night's events before his very eyes.

He was _terrified_.

Forcing down visceral emotions, John collected gauze and tape and sat them on his lap. His hands shook as he grabbed a pair of medical scissors. After three attempts of getting his fingers through the holes and failing he pushed them away. His heart punched against his ribs.

"There's a decanter over there."

John's physically jolted.

"Sorry?"

"There's a decanter in the globe. If you press down on Denmark, Fiji, and Serbia it will open."

John pursed his lips, almost venturing _how_ Sherlock knew that but dropped it. Quietly, John stepped to the globe, shoes dirtying the pristine carpet. Of course, it opened as Sherlock expected. Inside was a crystal decanter filled with whiskey, and three glasses.

"Why-"

"To steady your nerves, John."

The Doctor nodded numbly, and shakily poured the whiskey into two glasses. He lowered himself onto a single armchair and extended his arm.

"Here."

"No."

"It will help-"

"It is a pointless vice that will dampen my neural capabilities."

"Come on, Sherlock," Probed the doctor, "You're not a machine."

As Sherlock took the glass, John saw a violent tremor brush through his fingertips. From a distance, they appeared as socialites in a Gentlemen's Club. But they were soldiers returned from battle, with the physical and emotional scars from the fight.

"Sherlock," John began, chest tight, "Before, when I said thank you… I meant it. There are no civilian casualties. _Our family_ is safe-"

"Wrong."

"Sherlock-"

"Your adrenaline is clouding your judgement. Mycroft's agents got civilians out of the building. I didn't save Viola from Matteo. Molly was injured. We didn't stop the roof from collapsing."

"Mate… You sacrificed your life to protect us. That counts."

"But it _didn't_ protect any of you." Retorted Sherlock thickly, "I should have done _better_."

John laid a hand on his friend's arm. There was nothing to say. The best he could offer was humanity.

Sherlock let out an unsteady breath and raised the whiskey to his lips. The liquid was warm against the acidic anxiety in his throat. His expression was a boat searching for shore, until it appeared to hit the crags. The detective's jaw tensed. John realised, as his gut dropped, that Sherlock was near tears.

"I thought it was Mary all over again," Hissed Sherlock, face crumbling, "When I found Molly, I was sure-"

"Hey, Sherlock, come on." Soothed John gently, alarmed, "M-Molly's fine. You saved her."

"I saw her with blood spilling from her chest, next to a timber that came _so close_ to crushing her. Suddenly I was back in the aquarium and she was Mary…" His hand wiped away a tear, offended, "I'm meant to be a _bove_ human sentiment but God, _it hurt_ -"

"But you haven't lost her. You'll be arguing over body parts in no time at all."

Sherlock shook his head, fighting against the words that spilled unwanted. "I realised my fateful error. Moriarty never threatened Molly when I jumped. The evidence suggested that he had made a mistake… But when I saw her, limp in the shadows… I heard him laughing. He weaponised Eurus against Molly. This was the final act to bring a fall."

John sipped his whiskey to distract himself from Sherlock's vulnerability, the theory of Moriarty, the image of Molly being crushed-

"I love her, John."

The Doctor's head flicked up.

Sherlock nodded numbly at his own statement. "I never thought I was capable of such a feat… But I do, John, I love her so much."

"…I know."

Eyes narrowing a little, Sherlock sat back. "The relationship we have cannot continue."

"What?"

"Ahmed Moran was right. Moriarty's network isn't gone. The threats he made are valid." His palm flew to his head, as if momentarily disorientated. "We will always be in danger... I can't risk her life."

John stared, dumbfounded. "You're an idiot."

"Excuse me?"

"For believing you can walk away." A finger pushed out to issue his point, "If Molly is capable of faking your death _and_ running into collapsing buildings for you… You're stupid to think she'll give up on you because you're _scared."_

Suddenly, voices approached. Sherlock straightened, visibly wincing. John stumbled to attention.

 _Two young, one elderly, one-_

The door pushed open.

"Dada!"

 _Rosamund Watson prevails._

Sherlock had never seen John break out into a larger smile.

Agent Freya entered, wielding a squealing pyjama-clad infant who was reaching out desperately for her daddy. Unceremoniously John lifted her into his arms and kissed her, chanting her name like a mantra, holding back sobs of joy.

Freya laughed, "Rosa is certainly not complaining about being up past her bed time now."

John pressed another kiss to his daughter's cheek. "Rosie." He corrected with a small smile.

"Rosie." Confirmed Freya, eyes flicking to Sherlock. She made a step towards him, but was stopped as an elderly lady swooped past.

"Oh my God, Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson accosted Sherlock with a force so strong she winded him. Sherlock sagged into her smaller figure, reconnected with Baker Street's hearth.

"Don't you _ever_ put me through that again, Sherlock Holmes. The _amount_ of tea I've had to make for your mother!"

"Well, hopefully, you can return to herbal soothers now." Deadpanned the detective.

"Goodness, Sherlock, I'm sorry- Are you alright? I do hope your brother is going to apologise for his role in this mess. His people wouldn't even let your parents come here- 'Keeping them out of the press' Mycroft apparently claimed! They're _beside_ themselves!"

"Perhaps you can lecture him."

Mrs Hudson's eyes flashed with a matriarchal glee, "Trust me, I have _quite_ the words to have with the boy. Not trusting you and then-" She paused, then gasped, "Is Viola coping?"

Sherlock's mind uncontrollably replayed the sound of his daughter's cries. Rage burned his skin.

"Sherlock, what is it? Is it Molly? Because the Nurse said she was going to be alright, and-"

"Will you stop pandering me!"

Warm hands removed themselves as if by electric shock. Mrs Hudson's expression travelled over several facets of emotion- _fear hurt concern-_

"I… I apologise." He breathed quietly, and glanced towards the door anxiously, "Excuse me."

In a flash, he was gone. However, whilst his exits usually filled the air with bravado and sophistication, all that was left was the dust from his clothes.

* * *

It felt like déjà vu.

Down a long corridor stood Sherlock Holmes, fixated on a window.

Beyond the glass, lay his daughter, surrounded by her family.

The image was a ghostly parallel to the first time he'd seen her. Viola looked dazed, confused, and _vacant_. Sherlock deduced her with the scrutiny of an artist. He saw every mark Matteo had left on her, every sign of living rough, every matted tear stain on her skin.

Maria stroked her daughter's hair, Paolo held her hand. Her friends watched keenly, one of them subconsciously neatened her bedsheets.

Paolo, the man they had called Viola's _step-father_ , had soft features- _gentle, fatherly, emotional._ This was a man worthy of parenthood, willing to protect a child that wasn't even his own. If his devotion towards Viola was unrivalled, then who was Sherlock to call himself Viola's parent?

Through the glass, he saw Maria lift her head, and their eyes met in a tense stare. All heads turned to him. Viola's friends' expressions were a mix of worry and interest, whereas Paolo's was of guarded fury.

Sherlock nearly left. Yet his feet didn't move.

Exhaustion clawed at him like rusted chains.

The door opened with a gentle creak. Maria carefully stepped to his side.

"You're filthy."

"Running through collapsing buildings does that to you."

He heard a rustle. "Here."

Finally, he let his eyes drift to her. There was no hatred on Maria's expression. Numb, he looked downwards, and the object in her hands took his air away.

"I left it in her phone case," Maria explained as he took it, "It appears, despite ridding herself of the phone itself, she kept it safe."

In his hands was the photograph of himself and Maria, from all those years ago. Sherlock deduced the heat marks on the ink and knew exactly how Viola had secreted it on her person. It stirred a jarring feeling in his chest.

"Sherlock," She started nervously, "God, you saved our baby tonight… I-I don't know what to say."

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the window.

"When I first saw her, Maria, my first observation was that she was nothing like me. I couldn't perceive how such a _virtuous person_ came from us." Sherlock forced back a lump in his throat, "But I was wrong. She _is_ like me. Beyond mannerisms and genomes… Her intelligence is riveting, her mind remarkable. When she ran away, part of me was _impressed_. But those similarities have brought her to this point. Her recklessness nearly killed hundreds of people tonight."

"Sherlock-"

"Viola doesn't deserve to be scrutinised for her actions. I _know_ that," Observed the detective, "Despite all her mistakes, she is grieving. We can't allow her to feel guilty."

Maria nodded as he spoke. Unlike earlier encounters, there was no judgement in her eyes.

"I don't often want for much, Maria," Sherlock told her, voice thick with smoke, "But I don't wish to be forced apart from Viola again. It is up to her if she wants me in her life after this. Our influences are to be omitted entirely from the equation."

"Spoken like a true chemist," Maria commented with a soft laugh, "But that's… Of course, that's fine."

The lightest smile appeared on his features. He saw them as teenagers, tangled in each other's limbs wanting to forget the world. Now they stood, on the edge the mantle, with their daughter as the core of their earth. "Thank you."

"Do you want to see her?"

"...No."

"If it's because of the others, then- Well, they all know you saved her. They're all grateful."

"Paolo _despises_ me-"

"Teething issues," She clarified quickly, "…Sherlock, you can't blame him."

"Mm."

"Listen… Viola hasn't spoken a word since she's been brought here. It's like she's _gone._ "

"You think I can relinquish her of muteness?" He asked, albeit a touch sarcastically.

"No. If she's being quiet I imagine it'll be easier."

His blue irises widened. Perhaps Maria understood him better than he'd credited her. Through hazy memories of a toxic 'relationship', perhaps she had glimpsed his true heart.

"I'll get the others to leave, to give you two some privacy-"

"You don't have to do that."

Maria smiled tiredly, "She's your daughter, Sherlock. You have _every_ right to act as her Papa."

In his mind, a floorboard that had been destroyed secured itself back in the ground.

A couple of minutes later, Maria managed to coerce Viola's family into giving them space. Paolo had refused initially to leave her with him. Luckily, Maria was not to be moved. She brought Sherlock into the ward and headed towards the door. Paolo hesitated, eyes incredulous.

"Thank you for taking care of our daughter," Sherlock spoke suddenly in Italian.

Paolo held a defensive exterior for a moment, before leaving without a word. Sherlock only hoped he understood the sincerity when he said _our daughter._

Sherlock swallowed.

They were alone.

Father and daughter.

Viola was cocooned in white blankets and pillows. She looked small. Young. Her blue eyes stared blankly at nothingness.

In this moment, Sherlock saw Eurus in those vacant eyes. His blood ran cold.

 _Focus, Sherlock._

It took a horrendous amount of concentration to not explode with emotion. Frankly, the detective didn't know what would come first; the anger, grief, or relief. He settled on stillness. It was the most reliable safety mechanism he knew.

"Viola… I know you don't wish to be disturbed, however, with a single look I know you are of sound mind. Your mute pretence is obvious. I won't ask you to talk, but I will remain in your presence as long as you wish."

Viola's chin raised a little, and her eyes homed in on him. The pain in them disturbed his soul. "They were too emotional." Her voice was small, "I need to process what's happened."

"May I?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the ornate seat beside her.

Viola shrugged, eyes following him as he sat himself down.

"Why break your trance to talk to me?"

"You're clinical. Sentiment doesn't impede your logic. …That's easier."

Sherlock swallowed, "I'm sorry about-"

" _Non._ " _Don't._

"Viola-"

" _Clinical,"_ Viola insisted, "If you can't be clinical, then you can leave."

Sherlock descended into silence. Viola was absolutely determined to control her emotions until her last breath.

"Where's Billy?"

Sherlock blinked, "Wiggins?"

Viola nodded, studiously avoiding his eyes.

Rapidly, Sherlock deduced her, but his tiredness forced him to stop. "…I'm not sure. He isn't a creature of habit."

"He wouldn't just leave me," Viola insisted, "He wouldn't."

Sherlock was surprised at the conviction in her tone. Clearly, Wiggins had made a substantial impression on her. No one called Wiggins _Billy,_ not even himself.

"...I'll get Mycroft's agents to track him down. If that's what you want."

"He's the _only person_ I want to see."

Sherlock observed her for a long moment, "I understand that Wiggins took care of you after you ran away." His eyes narrowed, worn, "Only Wiggins could keep you hidden _that_ well. He was taught by me, after all."

"…You're not mad at him?"

"For protecting you? No." Sherlock acknowledged her look of surprise, "I understand you felt threatened and did what you needed to survive. If Wiggins hadn't found you, I dread to think of the eventualities."

Swallowing against her dry throat, she brushed a curl out of her eyeline. "I went to one of your bolt holes, you know?"

Sherlock raised a brow in surprise, "Wiggins certainly knew how to play the game."

Slowly but surely, Viola began to tell him everything. From their meeting to the lengths he'd gone to ensure her safety. Sherlock was floored by Wiggins dexterity in protecting her. It seemed discussing Wiggins brought Viola momentary relief from sorrow, and Sherlock allowed her the moment. However, as Viola came to discuss the events of the night she stilled, tensed, and her words stopped. Sherlock's nervous system flagged a warning signal. He saw the trauma climb up her vertebrae and manifest in her bones.

"…Who killed Matteo?" Viola asked suddenly, voice hollow.

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, "I don't know."

"Liar." Sherlock saw the fire kindling. He felt the heat. "I saw you. …The moment before Matteo was shot," Her bottom lip wobbled, "You- You shouted _'No'._ "

"Viola-"

" _No."_ She susurrated, "You're _lying_ to me… After letting a _fucking_ building fall on him."

Sherlock let out a breath and closed his eyes, willing to slow his pounding heart. She was in _no fit state_ to know of Mycroft's involvement _._ "Viola… I assure you, I don't know. I saw a shadow move in the wings. That was it… A shadow."

 _Hell,_ it sounded idiotic to his own ears.

"You're a detective. Work it out."

"Matteo is dead. Knowing will not make it easier."

"Of course, it will."

"If I know," She ground, face contorting in irritation, "Then it won't be my fault. Mycroft told me to- I thought I was saving him, I thought," Her hand flew to her mouth, "I didn't mean to, Papa. I didn't-" The fractured glass shattered. Hot sobs exploded from her throat, violent and painful.

Panic flared in Sherlock's stomach. He anxiously sought the window and cursed to see Viola's family gone. He was on his own.

"I killed him-" Viola's knees locked up by her chest, "He's dead because he _loved_ me-"

"Viola," Sherlock started, frantic, "His demise has freed you from abuse-"

Her jaw dropped in white rage. _That_ had not been a good thing to say. "How _dare_ you!" She bit, hands fisting, "What gives you the _right-"_

"Christ, Viola!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, slapping his palm on the armchair, "He was intent on killing you! Does your brain not comprehend it? This whole escapade was made to _kill you._ Kidnapping Mycroft, threatening the _nation._ Hell, you call it love- But it's a psychopath trying to _own_ you. On Moriarty's word. _That's all._ You're stupid enough to be manipulated into thinking otherwise." He began to pace, hands punctuating words with venom, "Hundreds of people will be _traumatised_ because of this- because of that _man_ you love. He took your intelligence and your _goodness_ and made you into an object for his sexual gratification! _That_ is not love. I'm _glad_ Matteo is dead."

Silence.

The moment the last word fell, regret doused him with ice. He was vibrating with rage. His eyes clamped shut. His nerves were in tatters.

For a scarily long moment, Viola stared at her father. Her blue irises were blown wide in horror. She saw him cave in until there was nothing but the raw human left. Silently, she began to move. Bare feet contacted the ground, and she pushed herself to stand. Slowly, she travelled the small distance to him, legs trembling all the way. Silent tears fell to the floor. A breadth away from each other, his eyes were still closed. Viola smelled the smoke still clinging to him, saw Molly Hooper's blood still on his hands and clothes.

It broke her heart.

Viola held her breath, reached out with a shaking arm, and pulled him into a hug.

Sherlock tensed in shock. His mind stopped functioning. Viola had never expressed this level of physical contact before. Her cheek was against his chest, her hands on his back. It felt entirely abnormal, but Sherlock realised… It was needed. Not used to the contact, he awkwardly lifted his arms, and secured her in them.

"I'm sorry, Papa." Viola whispered, "You're right… I know you are. It just- it hurts so much."

Sherlock had never known fully how it felt to be a parent until this moment.

Eventually, she let go. Sherlock was scanning her with the intensity she imagined he looked at crime scenes.

"Thank you for saving me… God knows I didn't deserve it."

His check clenched.

Viola's corner of the mouth pulled up into a smile, and she sat back down on the bed. Sherlock saw the dust from his clothes that stained her hospital gown. "Papa, I-" She struggled to find words, "I'm going home."

The detective's brow knitted, just a fraction.

"It isn't you," She continued hesitantly, " _No-_ It's… Here. Too much has happened. I can't, I can't stay where Matteo died." Her hands began searching for thread once more, "I need my friends, the sun, my life… I'm sorry."

Despite his mask of indifference, an immeasurable wave of failure gripped his joints. He didn't want this- He didn't want her to go.

"I mean, of course, come and see me… Perhaps if I find a particularly interesting corpse you can help." The corner of her mouth pulled up in a smile, but faltered "Say something, please."

Sherlock forced acceptance on his face. It was for the best, he knew. But he was selfish. Viola had only just become part of his life and was being ripped away again. Her and Molly was getting further away with every moment.

A deep longing for solace ached in his bones.

"Viola, I'll support whichever endeavour will help you heal. You have my word."

It was the price he had to pay, for being Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm glad we found each other, Papa."

"…Me too."

* * *

A pile of clothes adorned with blood and dust lay on the side of a swimming pool. Above, the Holmes family was being treated. But no sound reached the water.

Water moved freely as a stream after rainfall. Within the cool depths, swam Sherlock Holmes, back and forth, back and forth. With every stroke of his arms and motion of his legs, the world fell away. His sacrifice, Ahmed's confrontation, Viola's cries and Molly's blood dissolved in refractions of CO2 racing for land. Sherlock's stomach cried for sustenance, his head injury protested, and his muscles were rubbery. But none of this mattered in the water.

If he groaned in anguish, the water absorbed the sound. If lashed out in anger, the water absorbed the impact.

Surrounded by the abyss was the only place he felt he wasn't drowning.

Raising his lower back and pushing his arms forward, he plunged into the depths.

His hands grazed the tiled floor. Sherlock ached for gravity to find him. But as his fingers relaxed, all he saw was Molly. As loyal and as grounding as gravity itself. It disturbed the silence of his mind. Sherlock's hands drew of the ground and he pushed them outright. Away from that _feeling_ , away from-

His body shot into the air. Sherlock gasped, blue eyes flying open. Water dripped down his eyelashes, hair clung on his forehead. His hands gripped pool's edge, and he rested his forehead against them.

"Life offers us many conundrums, brother mine. I fear your aim of having the water absorb your emotions is merely metaphorical."

Sherlock stirred. His eyes, as blue as the water beneath him, opened.

"Mycroft."

The man was dressed in cotton pyjamas and a navy-blue dressing gown. Slippers of a matching hue covered his feet. Mycroft was frighteningly pale, gripping an IV pole where there should have been an umbrella. Sherlock observed him, noticing new wrinkles, and a cluster of paler hairs. He looked haggard. _He looked old._ Yet the steel in his eyes shone brightly. He was still Mycroft Holmes.

"You look ridiculous."

"Quite," Agreed the elder Holmes, "…I'm positively ghastly."

Despite everything, Sherlock smirked.

"You know Sherlock, all that bacteria and waste in the water is hardly medicine for a clean soul."

"I was clearing my head."

"And certainly, quite the theatrical way of doing so." Mycroft gripped the pole tighter in a sudden headrush, "Why aren't you stationed at the bedside of your lover? You are alienating yourself."

"After fixing the mess _you_ instigated don't you think I deserved some peace?"

The politician's lips drew into a line. "Brother mine… Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" He echoed. Sherlock pushed himself out of the water. Liquid pooled around his body. " _Am I alright?_ Mycroft- I nearly died tonight. _You failed me_ -"

"Sherlock-"

"No. For once, stop your philosophies and wiles and _listen._ For all your shortcomings as a brother I never imagined you would sink as low as you this." Sherlock pierced Mycroft with ballistic intensity, "You convinced Viola to give a _signal_ to kill Matteo. You made your niece complicit in _murder_!"

Mycroft's face puzzled over several minute adjustments before settling on restraint. "I will not apologise for saving _your daughters' life._ It was _necessary_."

"What if a witness caught it on camera? Viola could be arrested!"

"I will make sure that-"

" _No! You won't!_ Your job is caput! _Obsolete._ There is _no_ higher ground now the world knows about you. Ahmed Moran placed a gun against _my head_ and he is still breathing! What gave you the right to kill Matteo Conti?"

"Brother mine… You are entirely missing the obvious. Surely, you know who killed him?"

Sherlock stiffened. "… _Of course_."

"Then you understand why it wasn't my decision. When I saw that look in their eyes… I knew Matteo was not going to live another day. My role merely ascertained them the opportunity."

"You exploited _their heart-"_

" _I protected our family!_ "

The brothers stood, deathly still, duelling with each other in their irises.

"Mycroft," Sherlock started voice low, "For the past week, I have run your empire. I haven't slept, I haven't eaten. I fought _and fought_ for you. Even being dead didn't prove itself such a strain. The PTSD has reared its head, my dissociative amnesia is unfolding itself _every single moment,"_ Mycroft's jaw clenched, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't act surprised. I've even found myself subject to sentiment." He threw his arms outright, "I'm in love with Molly Hooper! If you hadn't vanished, if you hadn't made them lie, then I'd be happily existing without acknowledgement of these _feelings_."

"…You're blaming me for _falling in love?"_

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, "But I _can't_ love her. If she stays, all probabilities suggest she'll be killed because of my actions eventually... _It hurts._ "

The sound of soft wheels along wet tile filled the air, alongside the shuffling of slippers.

"My, you certainly have procured a goldfish."

" _Piss off."_

Sherlock was shivering, his heart tearing within his ribs.

Suddenly, soft cotton met his back.

Mycroft had let go of the IV pole and removed his dressing gown. With shaking arms, he laid it around his brother's shoulders. Sherlock's thoughts stopped being forthcoming.

He was floored.

"Sherlock… I am sorry that my actions have regressed the trauma you've worked through. I'm sorry my absence has made you confront the basal instincts of your heart."

"I'm not _this person,"_ Sherlock replied distantly, "Yet I cannot force these sentiments to subside. Not anymore."

Mycroft sighed, and gestured Sherlock to sit with him on a poolside bench. Reluctantly, the detective followed, pulling the soft material through his arms. Mycroft wheezed as he sat. "What is it you want, Sherlock?"

The detective stiffened. "I want Molly by my side… I want Viola to be my daughter."

Mycroft stared ahead at the water. "What is stopping you?"

"This- Our _lives_ , Mycroft. Terrorism, underground criminal networks, vendettas… Solving crimes is hardly my line of work anymore. It's safer to keep them away."

"Managing the world's anarchy is _my job_ , Sherlock. Not yours." Mycroft let out a soft breath, "During my absence, I had time to consider my effect on your existence. I've used you to my advantage... I've made you a soldier. You've suffered the scars and I merely ran the paperwork."

"What is your point?"

"…I'm releasing you from my charge." Mycroft watched Sherlock turn to him with an electrified expression, "If I require your intelligence, I will seek your consultation. It will be your decision whether to involve yourself. You're a detective, and you should be able to live as one. I nearly lost you tonight, Sherlock… I don't wish it to happen again. Of course, this by no means guarantees your safety. But it is a compromise, should you wish to take it. "

Sherlock blinked several times, cataloguing the words. There were dangers far beyond Mycroft's work, he knew. But this opportunity, to not be bound by the Secret Service. For it to be _his choice._ It was remarkable.

"…What about Molly and Viola?"

"I'll protect them, Sherlock. They're our family."

All the detective could muster was a slow nod. Deep down, there was no question. He could be Sherlock Holmes again. The song of Molly Hooper was internalised within his orchestra. Whilst he was Poseidon, she was Gaia.

He couldn't let her go.

"I do suppose that there is a lot of change afoot. The public will push for an inquest on Conti's death. Moran, Haggarty and their associates will be charged. Now the world has learned of my existence, new methods will have to be employed to maintain the country's security. The world learned you killed people whilst you were dead, Sherlock. That will have ramifications. The world has to turn its axis to move forward."

"You know, Mycroft, I don't believe this is the end of your empire, as Matteo so delightfully put it."

Mycroft quizzed a brow, "How so?"

"He made you likeable to Napoleon Bonaparte. However, Napoleon had an empire twice-"

"I do think that spectacle was rather incorrect. Those millennials did not have the intelligence of our sister."

Sherlock considered this for a moment, "What _did_ happen to Vernet's painting, Mycroft?"

His eyes narrowed as Mycroft what- _flushed?_

"Time spent repressed of life-sustaining elements can prove taxing on a person."

"…What did you do?" Helplessly, the smallest grin pulled at the side of Sherlock's lips.

Mycroft feigned disinterest, "Hardly a thing-"

" _Mycroft."_

"…I may have ripped it," He twisted the IV pole, not gracing a steely eye, "In the realms of a hunger pang."

Silence.

"…You _destroyed_ a family heirloom because you were _hungry?"_

"They had denied me lemon cake for almost a week. What was a man to do?"

A still silence filled the room, but it only lasted a moment.

A snicker exploded from the detective's throat, which transformed into a chortle, then a boisterous laugh. He threw his head back, and the baritone of hilarity bounced off the walls. Mycroft joined in the tirade. Neither remembered the last time they had laughed like this together.

"Christ, Mycroft!" Bellowed Sherlock, "You do realise mummy is going to be _far_ more furious about this than about the fact we nearly died?" Another cackle exploded from his throat.

"…Please Sherlock, it was an _ugly_ painting."

"The ugliest!"

They hooted until their sides hurt, until their depleted blood pressure caught up with them. Mycroft wiped moisture from under his eyes. Sherlock leaned back against the pristine wall. Eventually, as they sobered, Mycroft ventured to speak.

"…I'm glad you survived, little brother."

Sherlock, still in the aftermaths of laughter, tilted his head to Mycroft. "I'm glad you remain in existence also, _Mike_." A beat, "Now get up, let's locate a cook to bake you some _bloody_ _lemon cake_ before you destroy the Royal Family's Tupperware."

He stood and offered his hand to Mycroft. "God save the Queen", Mycroft remarked.

Together, the brothers walked back to the treatment wards. They never stopped smirking.

* * *

Rats.

All of them.

 _Bleeding rats._

Wiggin's swore under his breath.

King Edward VII's hospital was swarming with activity as the sun emerged on the horizon. Wiggin's had tried to get in, repeatedly, to no avail. Policemen pushed him aside with upturned noses. The press chastised him with complaints of "I got no cash mate! Shift!", "Get your paws out of here, scrubber!", and more of the like.

He needed to see Viola. For hours, he'd traipsed around London in a daze; The nights events replaying over and over. Twice, he'd ventured to dealers he knew for relief from the bedlam crowding his brain. Both, he'd abandoned. He just- _he couldn't._ Not with Viola in hospital.

Wiggin's slid down the wall on the building across from the hospital, ignoring the crowd metres away. His mind refused to slow down. It felt like ants crawling over his brain.

"William Wiggins?"

"Shit!" Gasped the irregular, jolting where he sat. His arms flew out in defence.

A redhead in smart clothing stared down at him. Professionalism eclipsed her, but she was choking back a laugh.

She offered a hand, "Freya Haugen. I work for Little Corporal."

Wiggin's took her hand and stumbled to stand, muttering 'cheers' as he did. He knew she wasn't prepared to use proper pronouns in this public space. "What d'you want?"

"Seraphina is asking to see you."

"You toffs finally decided to let me in then?"

"It wasn't us who stopped you." She supplied, looking at the police, "Come on. I'll get you through."

Wiggins watched her set off gracefully into the chaos, and he scrambled after her. As they bypassed the policemen, he very neatly flashed one of them the middle finger.

* * *

"No, Harry- I'm fine." John groaned, walking down some stairs, not-so-small infant in one arm, phone in the other, "There's no need to travel down, no- I think the less people the better, with the media." _God, I need to sleep._ "Of course- I _know_ that. I promise, it's-" John paused, as he narrowed in on Mycroft's suite, and hearing laughter. "Harry, I have to go. I'll talk later, alright? Bye."

Efficiently, John pushed his phone into his pocket and stepped across to the elder Holmes' suite.

The sight that greeted him made him do a double take.

It wasn't the splendour of Mycroft's suite that shocked him, with the bookshelves in between medical equipment. Nor was its Anthea, stood with phone in hand. No, it was the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft was sat up in his hospital bed attached to various equipment. At the foot of the bed, sat Sherlock Holmes cross-legged in a dressing gown. Between them lay a multitude of fine china, cleared of whatever had been served on them. They were bickering.

Sherlock looked refreshed.

Rosie suddenly kicked against him, small arms thrusting outwards, "'Lock!"

Her shrill protest brought the attention of the brothers, and Anthea flicked her head up briefly.

"Ah, Rosamund!" Sherlock greeted.

Rosie kicked harder, and John sighed. Relenting, he passed her over-

"Sherlock-" Droned Mycroft, "Not on the bed- _Sherlock-"_

The detective sat the girl on his lap, and she gurgled excitedly. "Afraid of infants, brother mine?"

"Hardly. But if she decides to expel her bowels on these linens it'll be your funeral."

"Charming."

"Quite."

" _Well,"_ Chided John, bringing them out of their reverie, "Glad to see you pillocks are feeling better."

Mycroft sneered, "Sherlock wanted to rush off to his lover's bedside, however, I insisted he receives sustenance first. He managed five courses and it's not even six am."

"You managed seven." Shot the detective.

"Sherlock… What's with the er- dressing gown?"

"Long story."

John rubbed his temple, "Well, I've come to tell you that Molly woke up. I tried to speak to her, but she just kept apologising about Haggarty until she fell asleep again. She asked for you, Sherlock." He shuffled on his heel, debating his next words, "Are you… Are you still planning on her leaving her? Because I think you're being irrational-"

A knock sounded on the door, and all heads turned.

Eyebrows raised in surprise as Billy Wiggins was ushered in by Agent Freya. He looked a stark contrast to the quality of furnishings around him.

John didn't have to be a detective to see that Wiggins was nervous. His whole body jittered with nerves. Dust still laid on his clothes. John saw Sherlock's eyes raking over him with blazing detail. Rosie, perceptive as she was, stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Ah," He coughed nervously, "'Ello Shezza, Mr Holmes, John… Mini John."

"I would ask if you'd seen Viola yet, but it's clear you haven't."

Wiggin's looked like he'd rather be _anywhere else._

Agent Freya smiled curtly, "I thought you'd rather see him first, Sherlock."

"Excellent deduction. Thank you, Freya."

The redhead smiled and dipped out of the room. Anthea followed her.

"Listen right," Wiggin's started desperately, "I _swear_ Shezza, I didn't know she was your daughter. I was gonna fetch 'er to you because I thought she 'ad this big case. Then things got out of me control and she _demanded_ I don't tell you. I knew things were shit 'cos Mycroft was missin' and I thought, 'sod it, someone's gotta make sure she's alright'" He ran an agitated hand through his hair, "If I'd 'ave known would 'appen tonight I wouldn't 'ave let 'er near the buildin'-"

"Wiggins," Sherlock interrupted, "Viola told me everything. You don't need to explain."

"…She did?"

With a huff, Sherlock sat Rosie on the bedding and pushed upright.

Mycroft looked entirely uncomfortable when Rosie pulled the quilt and chewed on it.

"Wiggins," Sherlock started smoothly, "Thank you for looking after Viola. She acted recklessly, and you did what you deemed necessary to ensure her safety."

Wiggin's jaw opened and closed several times, "Blimey, Shezza. I thought you'd go batshit on me."

"To the contrary," Mycroft cut in, contrite, "Your skills displayed this past week have surpassed those of some of my best people."

John smiled, expecting another baffled reaction. But to his surprise the atmosphere shifted.

Wiggin's paled.

"I, ah… There's no need for that, Mister Mycroft."

"It appears you'd make great choices to protect my niece."

Wiggin's left hand balled into a fist.

"…It was nothin'"

"Quite the understatement." Mycroft clasped his hands together, "Your commitment to her prevailing was remarkable... I should offer you a job."

The pin dropped.

 _Oh my god._

"Fuck off." Wiggins spat, and stormed out of the room.

Sherlock was out instantly on his heel.

 _"Wiggins?!_ " Exclaimed John. "Wiggin's shot Matteo? _Jesus Christ!_ How the hell did he get a gun?"

"It was Haggarty's. I saw him secrete it off her in the crowd. I imagine if she had still had it, then Doctor Hooper would have been shot, instead of stabbed."

John was _flabbergasted_. Suddenly, he felt like understood nothing that had happened in the previous hours. There was always more than met the eye, more beyond what he saw at the centre of the action. Wiggin's had killed Matteo. _It was unbelievable._

"But Wiggins is harmless!" Defended John, "He _cares_ about people."

"So does my brother, yet he assassinated members of Moriarty's network. So did Mary, yet her career w _as_ murder. How is this any different?"

John couldn't find an answer.

* * *

Hot tears burned Wiggin's eyes. He had to get away. The world moved in a blur around him. Frantically, he grasped a wall. Sickness passed over him in waves. He _needed a_ hit. Sobriety was not for the faint of heart.

He heard the recognisable gait of Sherlock coming closer. Wiggin's shoved his head into his hands and groaned into them.

"…Did you tell 'er?" Wiggin's questioned, voice a grate with blunt edges, "Does Viola know?"

"No."

He sagged in relief.

"'Ow long 'ave you known?"

"Since you knocked Ahmed unconscious in The Grand," Sherlock supplied efficiently, "You lifted me upright with your left hand. You never use your left hand for manual work. It was evident in that moment that you'd strained your right wrist. Evidentially from an untrained gunshot."

"Still 'urts like a bitch." Muttered Wiggins absently twisting it around.

"However, with the building imminently collapsing my focus was drawn immediately."

Anger fizzled in Wiggin's stomach, "I won't apologise for it, Shezza. _I refuse._ The bastard deserved it. You should've seen the way 'e manhandled 'er. I'd seen that video 'e made Mycroft do… The one where 'e said Viola wouldn't be livin' much longer. 'E looked at 'er look a piece of meat, Shezza. Hell, 'e knocked 'er dead out just to buy time until you arrived-"

"Viola kissed you."

Wiggin's eyes protruded out of his skull. His nerves nosedived and ran for the hills. "She- She _\- Yes."_

Sherlock's brow very slowly knitted together, "…She didn't tell me that."

"No, I bet she dint."

"…You didn't push her away."

"I, ah- _shit."_ Wiggins grimaced, forcing furious tears aside. Ungracefully, he slid down the wall, "I wanted to. I _tried-_ I just _, I couldn't."_

"I didn't think you went in for sentiment, Wiggins."

"Just because I don't doesn't mean I don't ever want to." He stared up at Sherlock hopelessly, "Viola's somethin' else. _I know_ she's your daughter and _I know_ it's all sorts of messed up, but… She never looked at me like I'm scum. She saw me intelligence and _we laughed together…_ She's bloody glorious, Shezza."

Sherlock was surprised at Wiggin's confession, his mind strained rapidly to comprehend the information. Sherlock only realised he'd been silent for some time when the man started babbling again.

"I don't want you to think that's why I shot 'im. Because that _would_ be batshit. I just 'ad to save 'er. I panicked. I bloody _panicked._ " He shook his head disdainfully, "I saw 'er dancin' with 'im. Then Mycroft was givin' me signals and I just _knew._ The knob kissed 'er with all the cameras lookin'… I'd never been so angry in my life."

As he'd spoken, the detective had moved silently to sit by his side. Equals.

"Wiggins, I won't condone your actions tonight. However, I refuse to judge you for them either. It has come to my attention that sentiment has adverse effects on the body and anyone is susceptible," He took a breath, "However, your infatuation with Viola is an issue." Wiggin's tensed beside him, " _No-_ Not for the reasons you think. …You're drug habits are detrimental for her wellbeing. You do realise _both_ me and her mother have struggled with drug use-"

"Don't worry yourself Shezza, I'm not gonna go for 'er."

"…You're not?"

Wiggin's sighed and closed his eyes, "No. Not after what I did. …You 'eard the way she cried. 'Ow the 'ell can I be around 'er knowing I caused that?" He glanced at his hands, destitute, "I knew she still loved 'im… I shouldn't 'ave let 'er kiss me. God, I was a bloody idiot."

Sherlock's cheek clenched and offered his friend an expression he hoped would communicate sincerity. "I'm sorry."

"You're alright," Wiggin's shrugged, "It ain't your fault."

Wiggins thought for a moment, then sat straight. "Shez, is Molly 'Oooper alright? I want to thank 'er."

"Why?"

"Well she broke into The Grand right, and she saw me. It was shortly after I fired the shot and I was in a right state. She sent me out to fetch the agents and emergency services, to show them a way in that wasn't gonna trigger the roof to cave. Without 'er mate, no one would 'ave 'elped you usher them kids out when the roof collapsed. She said to me that even though I took someone's life I could save 'undreds… That woman is a bloody saint."

God, what had Sherlock done to deserve Molly Hooper's heart? Every single time he presumed to understand her, she proved herself more magnificent. John was right… Mycroft was right. Molly was worth any risk. Why deny himself the one person he thought beautiful? Resplendent, fascinating, incandescent Molly Hooper.

"Shezza?"

"Mm."

"You've gone all 'mind palacy' on me."

The detective emerged into the present. "Let me take you to Viola-"

"What, ah-" Wiggins held his palms up, "Listen, I thought I could do it. But no, I can't-"

Sherlock's face flashed with frustration, "I won't tell her. …I'll make sure she doesn't find out."

"…That's not right."

"Perhaps," Agreed the detective, "But it's necessary. She needs to be surrounded by people she trusts. Can you be that person?"

Insecurity was apparent over the young man's features. But, eventually, his heart won out, and he offered a hesitant nod.

Not giving him time to reconsider, Sherlock immediately began to lead him to his daughter's ward. Whilst he strode purposefully, Wiggins dragged his feet a metre behind.

Slowly, Sherlock pushed on the door, and entered Viola's room.

She was laid in bed, forlorn, glancing at the curtains wantonly.

"Viola?"

"Papa."

"Where is your mother?" He asked her in Italian, slow.

Viola pulled the duvet closer to her chest. "They went to book accommodation to stay in England for a few days. The Doctor's don't want me going until they've given me a full psychiatric evaluation,"

Sherlock forced his face to remain blank, but it felt painful. "Wiggins is here to see you."

Viola's immediately became animated. "Where is he?"

Sherlock held his breath and stepped further into the room. Wiggins followed. He was trembling.

For long moment, Viola remained still. Her wide eyes raked over him, ascertaining information. Her hands gripped the sheets tighter, her cheek clenched, her chin trembled. Sherlock felt the pain in her chest and it made him uncomfortable. Whatever conclusion she reached, it caused her to shatter.

She burst into tears.

Instantly, Wiggins was by her side.

Sherlock was stunned.

They clung to each other, Anthropologist and Homeless Man.

Sherlock wished he had the capability to understand the raw emotion playing out in front of him. Was Viola crying out of relief or grief? Did Wiggins weep from the joy of seeing her safe, or the loss of knowing he couldn't love her? His synapses didn't provide him a conclusion.

Sherlock oscillated on the spot. _Molly would know what to do-_

 _Molly._

The thought of her woke him up. His body ached for her. There was no time to wait, not anymore.

After taking a moment to summon the courage of a soldier returning from war, he slipped from the room.

It was time to reunite with Molly.

Wiggin's stilled, and lifted his head watching Sherlock leave in fear.

Viola sensed him shift, " _Mi dispiace-_ Erm- _Dio-_ Billy, I'm sorry."

Wiggins forgot how to speak. His heart was sweltering in his chest. "Er- It's okay, don't worry."

Viola brushed some dust from his hair, "You are filth."

An abrupt laugh rattled in Wiggins lungs. "Missus 'Olmes your shite English is as bad as ever."

"Rude."

Wiggin's grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Viola, I- I'm sorry, about…" _Christ, compose yourself!_ "The ex… I'm really am sorry."

He'd never expressed a sincerer apology in his life.

Viola's chest moved up and down twice as she processed his words. Wiggin's heart clamped thinking that she _knew-_

"It's okay," She reassured him, "I don't want to talk about it."

Her ignorance spoke bounds. Wiggins felt cold. "No?"

"No." Viola clasped her smooth hand into his calloused one. "Tell me about a- er, _bizzare_ story about you and Sherlock?"

If Viola wanted a distraction, then he'd do just that. He recounted the tale of the first time he'd helped Sherlock Holmes solve a crime. The first s _ober_ time. As he watched the woman's small reactions, felt acutely the way she'd grip his hand, Wiggins realised one thing.

 _If I can help her heal, then it's worth everything._

* * *

London arose with a fresh breeze and the chatter of traffic. Barristers placed blackboards outside coffee shops, retailers drew up the blinds, alarms chimed like morning birds across millions of homes.

 _A new day._

A small ray of sunlight cast through a gap in dark blue curtains, cascading on a hospital bed. Yellow warmth blossomed on the cotton, settling just over Molly Hooper's chest.

Sherlock stood, transfixed. Her heart rate was an undulating metronome to the sentiment of his soul.

 _62bpm… 64 bpm… 61bpm_

The blood transfusion had been a success. Molly would remain under observation but would be on her feet in no time at all. The wound Haggarty had inflicted had torn the pectoral muscle atop her left breast, narrowly missing the intercostal muscle which could have penetrated her lungs. From the angle of the wound, Sherlock understood how it could have ended.

Haggarty had aimed for her heart.

Molly's eyelids fluttered every so often in the realms of a dream. Sherlock wondered how far she travelled into the forays of her brilliant mind. _A lot further than you'll ever comprehend._

Outside, Sherlock could hear the frivolous chattering of reporters on the street. They buzzed like bees in a distant hive. Conscious of them seeing _anything,_ he swept to the curtains and secured them closed.

Molly stirred.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned, not uttering a single breath. Molly was watching him studiously, analysing him through tired eyes.

 _She lays there recovering from a stab wound, yet her first instinct is making sure you're okay._

Slowly, her dark eyes settled upon his pale ones. Sherlock saw the pain touching the edges of her expression. But, she smiled. "...The dressing gown?"

"Molly," Sherlock started, but the words caught in a vice in his throat. The desire to hold her, to ascertain confirmation that she was _truly a_ live and safe was blinding. However, a dark rage emerged above it. Images of her drenched in blood cut through his synapses like knives. Suddenly, he felt sick. His head swam with Eurus' music, taunting him to flee.

"John said you pulled me from the wreckage, Sherlock... I can't believe you came back for me." Molly spoke softly, with a thankful smile. However, her eyes betrayed worry, and her lip trembled.

"You intercepted The Grand in full knowledge that it _would_ collapse."

Her heart plummeted.

"…I had to save you," She implored, "I had to-"

Sherlock's head dipped. "Do you know how close you were to being crushed? _Do you?_ "

Molly was exhausted, swimming a breadth between the euphoria of painkillers and actual pain, yet his anger awoke her violently.

"The police daren't enter for the sake of _more risks..._ I had to tell you."

Sherlock braced his hands on the bottom handles of the bed. His knuckles turned white. Molly tensed.

He was furious.

"Molly Hooper listen to me because I shall not repeat these words. You do _not_ run into collapsing buildings for me." It was taking physical effort to keep quiet, "Not myself, John, Lestrade, dammit even _Rosie._ We could have lost you. If cameras hadn't seen you, _no one w_ ould have known. _No one_ would have saved you."

Tears brimmed like lava in Molly's eyes. Violent memories flashing behind her eyes. ' _Scream and I'll bring the whole building down. You can watch lover boy getting flattened.'_

 _"Sherlock-"_

"Logic was obliterated into ash, Molly. I thought you had _died_."

The betrayal on his features turned Molly's blood to ice. She saw him- raw, shaken- and never had she understood more than what it was like to be loved by Sherlock Holmes.

Fighting her consciousness to stay acute, she tried to straighten upright. Pain ripped through her upper body, and a cry escaped her lips. Instantly, Sherlock was at her side. She grasped his hand for support. As she settled, he remained at her bedside. He watched her like a caged animal. He didn't let go.

Molly focused on his hand. She saw small callouses and scars. Her hand caressed every single artifice there as if it was art.

"Sherlock, if it had been me inside, would you have done nothing?"

"That's not fair."

"Why not?"

"Because I can give my life up, Molly. _You can't._ You are worth so much more-"

"Who are you to say whose life is _worth more_? This isn't a _game_." Frustration burst through the seams, "How could I live with myself knowing I left you? After _everything_! We have come too far for you to even _think_ this way! I will not apologise, Sherlock… I love you. _I love you_ -"

Suddenly, all was silent.

Sherlock Holmes captured Molly Hooper's lips against his own.

The touch was fervent, a stone being skimmed on water. They were still for a long moment. Then, Sherlock sighed against her lips, as if the turmoil in his soul had stilled, and Molly forgot how to think. Instantly, she pressed herself closer, encouraging. _God,_ she needed him. She needed this.

Sherlock's whole body was eclipsed with white noise. The force left him without gravity, clinging to her for orbit _._ He smelled her; jasmine and rose, old books and disinfectant, and marvelled in it.

It was painfully slow, and devasting, the way they held each other. Sherlock calculated every caress, afraid of hurting her. His fingertips rested on her pulse. They were Poseidon and Gaia at the end of the universe, and they were one. The woodland and the ocean.

Eventually, their lips parted as gently as they had met. Heads resting together, their breath mingled as one. "…Sherlock."

"Molly Hooper." He gasped, "You are singularly the most incandescent element I have ever observed."

Molly's eyes were wide, full of unspent tears, relief, and pure unadulterated joy.

"Molly, The future… It's proving itself an unrelenting enemy."

"What are you saying?"

"Against my better judgement of the conceived eventualities… I cannot see myself navigating it without you."

The air left Molly's lungs. His blue eyes shone with what _\- Resentment?_ Resentment for needing her in a dangerous world. Molly realised his love for her was a means of _survival._ Was this how a sociopath loved?

If hearts were capable of imploding, Sherlock's would have ignited a black hole.

They needed time to think. They needed to sleep. Emotions were riding so high Molly feared saying _anything_ would ruin this- _ruin them_ \- before they could consider the future logically.

"I know you have doubts," She told him softly, fingertips brushing a curl from his temple, "I do too."

"Molly-"

"We can discuss everything…. But not now. Let's be selfish. Stay with me. Please."

Despite everything, a small smile traced Sherlock's lips. He endured in silent awe as Molly shuffled herself over to give him room, lying on her back. Abandoning protocol and etiquette, he gently climbed onto the small bed beside her, laying on his side. One hand draped over her waist, stroking the cotton over her skin. Awkwardly, he curled around her, and for the first time in days felt his body started to sink into the exhaustion that wore over him. The hypnotical call to the unconscious realm a vibrant siren of the sea.

"I love you, Sherlock." Molly's voice drifted through the ocean breeze.

Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to her temple, and his eyes fluttered shut. "I love you, Molly Hooper."

* * *

"' _A Grand Fall Leaves Holmes Family in Ruins.'_

"Atrocious!"

' _Sherlock Holmes Emerges: Phoenix of the Ashes.'_

"Abysmal!"

Chen snickered, "' _Holmes Confesses Love for Watson in Dramatic Scenes!'"_

"Where have they contrived this fiction?!"

"Erm... Oh, ' _Hat Detective Saves Little Corporal and Daughter!"_

"Ridiculous," Mycroft susurrated as Agent Chen tossed the _Daily Mail_ to the ever-growing pile of newspapers of his bosses bedside, " _The Telegraph_ claims the police are responsible, _The Independent_ claim Ahmed Moran is a _terrorist_ due to Islamic beliefs. Nevermind _The Guardian,_ so fixated on myself, Viola and Doctor Hooper they've completely ignored Sherlock's sacrifice!"

"Sir-"

"I need to speak to the Press Secretary. This propaganda cannot be the forthcoming source of information!"

"Sir, perhaps if we issue a statement-"

"Not until after debriefing." Mycroft snapped, irate.

Every single article and photograph displayed the darkest moments of his family's life as sordid _entertainment._ One displayed across _The Economist_ featured Sherlock, Viola, himself and John just after the building collapsed. Someone had captured the moment all their eyes had fallen on the wreckage, dusted, bloodied, and horrified. If there were a dramatic metaphor to capture how his life had fallen into disarray, this was it.

Mycroft picked up a copy of _The Guardian and_ flicked over the page. A huge image of John cradling a sobbing Sherlock as Molly lay being treated lay in blistering detail across two pages. Mycroft blanched and snapped it shut.

"Chen," He started, hoarse, "Bring me a secure mobile."

Agent Chen's brow knitted in question. "Sir?"

Mycroft pierced him with a lethal glare that made civilians quiver.

"Put me through to Sherrinford. _Now."_

* * *

 **Well well well...**

 **This update ended up being a huge task, and I hope you enjoyed it! So excited to hear your thoughts!**

 **Huge thanks to 'GoodShipSherlollipop' for inspiration with the newspaper articles- You're an angel! (PS Her stories are fabulous!)**

 **We have three more updates to go folks! The final chapter, the epilogue... And something extra special! The sun is definitely set to emerge for our characters, that's all I'll say.**

 **Back to London to enjoy some city sunshine this weekend! Yas!**

 **See you at the next one!**


	23. The Cotton Sock Detective

**Why, hello everyone!**

 **A quick notice before this starts. The delay in this chapter has been mostly _due_ to writing. Essentially, there was a lot more for this story to tell than I anticipated. When writing, I ended up hitting over thirty thousand words. YES, I KNOW. So, this is not the final chapter. You have one more to go, which will be with you next week...**

 **Thank you again for everyone who's reading and supporting this story. I can't thank you enough.**

 **Enough chatting, let the drama commence!**

 **See you at the other side...**

* * *

 _Do you believe in monsters, brother mine?_

Images crawled upon a peripheral of steel; grotesque beings with bared teeth, claws and yellow eyes.

Mycroft had never believed in such creatures. A monster wasn't make-believe. Rather, monsters existed amongst the living.

Monsters existed in suits, deeming men's worth from their skin, sexuality, and money. Monsters existed in those who wielded cameras as weapons. Monsters existed in little girls who murdered little boys-

 _Am I a monster, brother mine?_

From the theatre of society, Mycroft had observed monsters from his seat in the Gods his entire life. He sought to protect the world from these creatures. The best way to trap a monster, was to become one.

So, he bore the claws, the fur, and the consequences.

If he were a monster, more fearful than the rest, then he could scare the evil back into wardrobes, under bridges, into prisons.

 _Are you a monster, brother mine?_

A monster danced in Sherrinford, dressed in a little girl's dress.

A monster, more dangerous than he.

Eurus Holmes was the monster underneath Mycroft's bed.

What would she be capable of, when the next night dawned? When the claws curled around the mattress, hot breath ghosting his neck-

 _Stop._

Relinquishing a mug from a white saucer, Mycroft willed to slow down his thoughts. He winced against the bitter tea as footsteps approached. _Even, military gait, female size seven-_

Agent Freya entered the room, an observant countenance on her features.

"Sir," She started smoothly, "Have you managed to rest well?"

"Quite, though I imagine sleep will be more restful after debriefing."

"Emerging from a traumatising situation can be difficult-"

"I _know_ what it can be. Thank you, Haugen." He shot back, words tiny shards of ice. "Have you brought what I asked for?"

Green eyes studied him for a moment, and Mycroft had a sickening feeling she saw right through him. Just like she had with Sherlock, all those years before.

"Indeed. Sherrinford has agreed to your request." A strong hand grasped a small black folder.

Mycroft took it smartly, forcefully ignoring the acid spreading from his fingertips into his nerves.

"Sir, forgive me. But is this the right move to make?"

"Monsters which cannot be contained require other means of control."

There was a small, cold silence.

"As you wish."

A small click of the heel indicated Mycroft to her salute, then her footsteps retreated.

Steeling himself, Mycroft slid a finger across the seam and pushed it open.

If he felt claws grasping his ankles, he didn't flinch.

 _I think you're a monster, brother mine._

* * *

" _Good morning Phil. Right now we are standing outside King Edward VII's hospital. Inside the Holmes family are preparing to leave after almost a week of silence following the collapse of The Grand nightclub in Clapham-"_

It was quiet. Eerily still. Yet eerily bright. Viola Seraphina Esposito Holmes deftly pulled her curled hair into a bun- the odd tendril managing to spring free. Fear agitated her bones with such vivacity she could have been propelled into a dance of the damned. _You can do this,_ she told herself- in a voice which sounded remarkably like Billy poorly attempting Italian.

It had been days since he'd been to see her. For some reason, his absence scared her more than the inquest did.

"Viola?"

Viola looked over at her step-father, Paolo. In his arms he held a smart white blouse and a navy blazer.

Armour for the world outside the gates.

"I hope these fit. The sizes are funny here." He faltered, "Just think, after this, we can get you home."

Viola nodded numbly. Leaving the hospital felt like sealing the final nail on Matteo's coffin. The first step into a life without his charming smile and dangerous hands. But it was a step into independence. _Towards her life._

"I'm ready."

"… _They will be going to the Royal Court of Justice to attend debriefing with the goal of releasing a public statement in conjunction with MI6 and the Metropolitan Police on the events-"_

"The Law Courts, Mycroft? It's rather public. The whole world will be outside with glass against the walls-"

"Precisely, Sherlock. We have dealt in the secret services for too long. The public needs to believe we endeavour to be honest-"

"Although that is the opposite-"

"Naturally." Mycroft smirked, fastening a tie with less precision than he'd used to.

Sherlock leaned against a doorway in a new Belstaff coat. In one palm, he held an umbrella.

Mycroft stared at it for a long moment, in encompassing awe.

Sherlock grinned. Mycroft might as well have been _drooling._ With grace he held it outwards as if he could knight him in the very ward.

"For you."

Mycroft grasped the handle. Letting the needle push against the floor, he rested more bodyweight against it than before. But it didn't matter. He felt like a snake in new skin.

"Thank you, brother mine."

Sherlock bowed his head.

"Sherlock, I suppose, it won't be long until your existence returns to normality."

"All I want is to go home, with a cup of tea in one hand and a murder in the other."

"And Doctor Hooper?" An eyebrow was raised, quizzically.

Sherlock didn't reply. Mycroft rationalised the silence spoke more than words could.

"… _Energy is exceedingly frantic out here. Fans of the Hat Detective are fascinated to see Viola Esposito-Holmes and Mycroft Holmes in person. However, there are protestors in the midst. People urging for Sherlock Holmes' arrest after his collusion with the police -"_

"Slowly, Molls- You ready? One, two, _three-"_ As firmly and gently as he could muster, John stood, bringing his friend up with him. Molly gasped out, blunt nails digging into his lower arms. "You okay?"

Molly let out several steadying breaths, "Fine. _Getting_ up is the painful bit. I'll be fine now."

"You sure I can let go?"

"Yes," Molly giggled.

A loud shout sounded from the windows.

John grimaced, "You'd think they'd just let us go back to Baker Street. It's literally just down the road. But _no-_ Private cars, protestors and debriefings it is. There's no relief from this madness."

"It'll be over soon," Molly assured him, "I'll be back in the morgue. You and Sherlock will be taking cases."

"Molly… Speaking of Sherlock, I just- ah," He rubbed his temple absently, "Are you still together? I _know_ it's your business but Sherlock's being so- well, _Sherlock_ , about it. It's been days… And I'm clueless."

"…We're fine."

For a long moment, John stared. "Not _you too_."

"John-"

"That's _all_ he's said to me. For days, the git. _"_

"We're fine." She reiterated, without so much of a flinch.

"But ' _fine'_ could mean anything! Fine could mean you're trying to work on being friends after breaking up, ' _fine'_ could mean you're engaged, ' _fine'_ could mean you're shagging each other into next Sunday!" John flew his arms out, and winced at Molly's no-nonsense glare, "Sorry."

Thankfully, the side of her lips pulled up into a grin. "John. When he's ready to tell you, he will. There is enough happening now with Viola and an international inquest for him- us, to be sure about… Well." She placated him with an honest look, "We're fine. That's all you need to know. For now, we focus on this debriefing."

"You're _too_ sensible, you know that, don't you?"

"It's my speciality."

* * *

Approaching the entrance doors of the hospital, the Holmes family were met by the shouts of the world, bating for attention.

Agent Chen and Agent Freya, suit-clad, stood by the doors. Several security guards were stood either side of them. Sherlock and Mycroft were already waiting when Viola emerged with Maria and Paolo. Sherlock deduced her quickly, words flashing in his peripheral.

 _She's terrified._

"Viola," He acknowledged in Italian, "Close your ears. Walk quickly."

"I know, Papa."

As she responded, footsteps sounded from the corridor. Together, John and Molly emerged. Molly was wearing a light blue dress adorned with the occasional gardenia flower. The loose material didn't impose on the gauze on her chest. Sherlock found himself transfixed. Here she was, a totem of strength and humility, ready to face the world at his side. Whatever they were- whatever they _would be-_ was void. He was proud of her.

"Should I book the Priest now?" Snickered Mycroft.

Sherlock fumed, biting back the urge stamp on his toes.

With a professional air, Agent Chen addressed the group. "There are three cars on the street. The first for Sherlock, John, and Viola. The second for Mycroft and Molly. The last is for Maria and Paolo to take you both to your hotel. Do not acknowledge the press or the public. We are to remain silent until our official inquest is released. Are you ready?"

For a moment, a thick silence plagued the room, decorated only with the shouts from the world outside.

Viola visibly tensed, verging on a fight or flight, and only stopped when Sherlock grasped her hand. Shocked, her head dropped to the sight. The immensity of the simple gesture hit her like a wave. Here they stood, father and daughter, to face the world together.

Sherlock turned, bowed his head to the Agents, dropping her hand.

The doors were pulled open.

Blinding light assaulted their senses. Shouts, flashes, cries rang violently in their ears.

John fisted his hands, the echoes of gunshots whispering behind his eyes.

Sherlock's arm instinctively raised his arms, shielding Viola. John dashed down the steps, clearing the path with security. Viola was frozen. They weren't the press. They were the terrified civilians in The Grand- She was on stage, Matteo was leering at her and she was _going to die-_

"Viola," Sherlock's thick baritone cut sharply, "We need to move."

Forcing a scream down her throat, Viola began moving. Desperately, she scanned for Wiggins in the crowd.

He wasn't there.

Seconds later, she was surrounded by a car interior, followed by John.

Sherlock stood, one hand grasping the car door, checking to see everyone else's progress.

Everyone, besides Mycroft and Molly had reached the cars.

"Go. I'll travel with Mycroft and Molly."

John's mouth opened to protest, but Sherlock slammed the door.

Seconds later Sherlock materialised at their sides.

"Wait here." He instructed Molly.

Smoothly, he relinquished Mycroft of his umbrella, and with a protective arm around his shoulders, he assisted him into the car.

Molly was awash in the madness of the world.

How had her London, with its bright lights, fast tubes, and vibrant commuters become this ugly jungle?

' _Molly Hooper! How do you feel knowing that Sherlock Holmes is a murderer?!' 'What's your relationship with the Holmes'? 'Is it true you slept with Jim Moriarty?'_

"Molly-" Sherlock called, " _Molly-"_

She startled.

Sherlock grasped her hand in his own, firmly. "Come on, not far to go."

Swiftly, he eased her into the car.

Only as the car sped off did he consider what he had done. From all the family he had helped, it was only Molly's hand he had held. Within minutes, photos would be plastered all over the news.

* * *

The angry shouts of the press rang in their ears far longer than they remained visible. Viola sunk into her car seat, blinking away fiery tears from her eyes.

John twisted himself carefully, " _Jesus-_ The press… I've not seen them this rambunctious since Sherlock came back from the dead."

Viola wanted John to go away with his complicated English adjectives. "I don't understand why," She took a shaky breath, "Why they are angry. I am nothing wrong…"

John sighed, correcting her English silently. "The press are like wild animals. If they get a story, they don't mind who gets hurt."

"…I just need to get through this, then I can go."

Thumbs tapping his knees, John began to speak, knowing he was treading in dangerous waters. "Viola, can I be blunt?"

One eyebrow raised.

"Don't go. Ah, what I mean is... Sherlock doesn't want you to go."

Slowly, her head began to turn, "He said this?"

"Not in so many words," John sighed, "But if almost a decade with Sherlock Holmes has taught me anything it's to know when he's disappointed. He feels like he failed you. Just, after debriefing, stay a while. A week, even. Give him that time with you that this case has cost." At her dubious expression, John knew he was fighting a losing battle. "Viola, Sherlock has transformed with you in his life. He has fought for you. Please, give him a chance."

Viola sat stiff, eyes wary. "…I can't. Yes, he fought for me. But he still lies."

"...Lies about what?"

"Billy." There was a weight in the name, a loss. "He is missing. Sherlock said he doesn't know why but he lies."

John's stomach dropped, and his mouth immediately dried.

Wiggins had stayed with Viola for hours on that first day, being the sun in her sadness. When he left, he promised to return. But Viola hadn't seen how her grief had shattered his heart. She didn't hear his racked sobs after leaving the ward. He thought he could do it, that he could help her, but the guilt was too much.

He didn't intend to see her again. He claimed that was the only way he could help her.

Wiggins had gone as far to attend his debriefing privately. Sherlock had worked ruthlessly for days to make sure Wiggins involvement in Matteo's death would be kept secret. It was a thank you, for keeping Viola safe.

But John couldn't tell her. He couldn't break her strength.

"Sherlock wouldn't lie to you about Wiggins. Not after everything."

Viola narrowed her eyes, and John winced under the severity of her stare.

"You don't lie as good as papa, John… I will find out."

The rest of the drive was spent in icy silence.

* * *

 **Debriefing- Day One.**

The Royal Court of Justice was not what Viola expected. It looked like a Castle; tall spires and ornate windows displayed in abundance. It reminded her of a school trip she'd taken as a child to Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany. Mystery had lured the child in dark plaits from the public paths into the shadows, caverns, and secret passages on a journey for awe and adrenaline. Hours later, she had been discovered and punished for not conforming to rules. But Viola hadn't cared. She had dreamed of the castle for years.

But this wasn't an adventure, not anymore. Death was laid in her hands. This castle was a courthouse. The place of her emotional emancipation.

The car pulled up smoothly. Glancing at John, he merely nodded at her, tight-lipped, and stepped out of the car.

Viola wished Billy was by her side.

John had was eternally grateful for the breeze that hit his face. He was even more grateful to see Sherlock already there. Detective Inspector Lestrade was by Sherlock's side, hand on his shoulder. Lestrade hadn't seen Sherlock since he had been dragged from Molly's unconscious body, drenched in blood, dust, and tears.

John's feet propelled him towards his friends. "Sherlock, can I have a word?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, and John ushered him a couple of feet away.

"Have you spent time with Viola in the past few days?"

"Of course-"

"Do you know she's accusing you of lying? About Wiggins?"

Sherlock froze, just for a second. "Yes, it's an obvious deduction."

"Sherlock," He took a deep breath, "I'm worried about her."

"She's grieving, John. These thoughts will pass. Viola will stop asking questions-"

"I'm not so sure, mate. The look on her face…"

"The _look?"_

"it was the same look you have when the world is telling you won't solve a crime… _Hellbent_ on answers. Matteo is dead, she doesn't know what happened. Wiggins is missing, she doesn't know why. She's going to put two and two together. I know it."

"Sentiment is a weakness on intellects like hers. She cares about him- More than I expected," His brow furrowed, "Her affection, it's made her blind."

"When you took her to her first crime scene she solved the murder in three minutes. Can you really put solving this past her?"

"Yes, John. I can." The detective snapped.

A hand landed on John's shoulder, and he jolted. Turning, he saw Lestrade at his side, speaking loudly about how thankful he was that 'The Baker Street boys will continue to fuck up police regulations for years to come'.

Laughing, and responding in words he himself couldn't hear, John's mind echoed a single thought.

 _I hope you're right, Sherlock. I really do._

* * *

Molly had never longed for the morgue more in her life.

The Law Courts was hardly the place for an introverted pathologist. Walking through polished halls, security personnel were never more than a few feet away. Privacy was impossible.

After what seemed an eternity, she, and the Holmes family approached the room in which debriefing would take place and started to make their way inside.

Molly didn't want to relive everything. She was strong, yes, but the trauma had impacted her. Her body felt mutilated. Life would now consist of a marring scar on her the top of her breast. Two days ago, she had broken down, and Sherlock had called it a symbol of survival. Like his gun shot wound, in a similar spot. It seemed shared scars would be a part of them now. Markers of their journey to each other.

A presence appeared by her side and moved around to face her. It was Sherlock. Immediately, she softened. Things between them were complicated- extremely so, but this, his _care_ of her was constant.

Careful eyes studied her. "Molly."

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing under his skin.

He was nervous.

"Are you alright?"

"This is a formality. I have been through it before."

"That doesn't mean it's going to be easy."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at that. If Molly heard his thoughts, she imagined there'd be thousands of voices.

After a small silence, she felt his hand come against her own. It was warm, whilst hers was cold. His head bowed, and he pressed his lips to her hair. Heart in her throat, Molly resisted the temptation to pull him into her arms.

The motion was all to brief. Quickly, he pulled himself upright and glanced to his side.

Agent Freya was leaning against the wall, watching them keenly. She offered a curt nod to Sherlock, who returned it, then they ventured into the room.

The room was bigger than Molly had expected. Square shaped, the room bore aristocratic ceilings and three tall windows. In the centre of the room, there was a large spherical mahogany table. Each seat had a place card with their names. The centre of the table carried several recording devices, cameras, and folders.

Molly sat alongside Viola, who was followed by Sherlock, Agent Freya (at Sherlock's personal request), Mycroft, and John. Beyond this semicircle was Lestrade, several Agents from Mycroft's team, and others she didn't recognise.

Later, Molly would understand they were representatives of the Palace, MI6, Parliament, Scotland Yard, and the Metropolitan Police.

Viola was watching every single person entering the room like a hawk. In one hand, she twisted an earpiece- one for wireless translation. Gently, Molly lifted her left arm, ignoring the shooting pain in her chest, and grasped Viola's hand in her own.

A bald security guard went over to the door and secured it closed.

The room dawned into obstinate silence.

Agent Chen cleared his throat and stood. "Good morning, everyone. My name is Lieutenant Jian Chen, Specialist Agent for MI6 and Elizabeth Corps. The other members of our witness call are Freya Haugen GCMG MI6, William Holmes: Retired SO, MI6-"

The list continued, but John's heart stopped.

In all the years, since Sherlock's 'resurrection', John had _never_ had concrete answers to Sherlock's activities whilst he'd been dead. Yes, events had come to light, but his anger, and Sherlock's determination to resume his normal life had meant he'd never truly understood.

Sherlock had been deployed as a Security Officer for Her Majesties Secret Service. The man who had created his own job title as an action against authority, had held a military level position for the sake of saving his friends.

John saw his mouth upturn at the word _Retired._ Blue eyes moved to Mycroft, who managed a similar slight upturn of the lips.

Shock exploded through John's body.

Sherlock had retired from the Secret Service recently. Perhaps, only since The Grand's Collapse. All these years, and John hadn't known a thing.

* * *

By the time the first recess on proceedings was called, everyone was exhausted.

Molly hadn't realised debriefing would be as much about emotional healing as well as reconstructing events for public release. The days were structured as such: After Action Reviews in the morning, followed by a break, then individual Critical Incident Stress Debriefing (for those most heavily involved) to prevent PTSD. John informed Molly this wasn't the usual way these gatherings were held. But this, certainly, was a unique situation.

"Christ, this is e _xactly_ what I needed." Lestrade moaned, swallowing sweet coffee.

Molly smirked at him from over the table, taking a much calmer sip from her own. They'd retreated to the temporary catering area set up for the inquest, in what was should have been a large office.

"Molly, I've got to tell you. I'm bloody relieved to see you're alright… I thought we'd lost you. Sherlock thought you were dead, and since when is he wrong about people's mortality?"

"…I'm well as can be, I suppose. I just want to get back to work."

"Tell me about it," He shrugged, "Anyway- How are you and Sherlock? It was only a few days ago I caught you snogging, and I swear to God I've been in a parallel universe ever since."

He grinned, but Molly didn't return the smile. How did she navigate this? She hadn't explained the situation to anyone, not even John, because it was so fragile. But this was Greg, she'd known him for longer than the others. In fact, it was remarkably refreshing to be talking to someone who wasn't in this inner circle.

"Er, Greg… Can I be honest?"

"Fire away."

"It's like we've entered limbo… I want us to find a way in which a relationship _could w_ ork. I know he wants it to." She shrugged as his eyebrows raised, "But… We've been forced together out of tragedy. If it hadn't been for Eurus, Viola, Mycroft's disappearance…"

"You don't know if he would have come to you."

"Exactly. Sentiment isn't his comfortable place, is it? He feels guilty for loving me."

Greg pursed his lips in thought. "…So where are you standing now?"

"We've decided to wait until things have calmed down before deciding on our future… So, for now it's like we're together, but not properly. We're not even staying together- He's staying with Mycroft." She brushed a loose hair behind her ear, "It's painful, when we love each other, to know it might not work."

To her surprise, Greg looked confident. "You'll sort it out."

"…You sound sure."

"I am. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes doesn't fall in love easily- Christ, we thought he was asexual, or gay- I've literally seen him receive a lap dance undercover and not bat an eyelid!" A dry laugh escaped his throat, "But that man is so stubborn. If he loves you, _truly_ loves you, he won't let you go because circumstances are changing. Hell, a relationship with Sherlock will be far from conventional but…"

"What?"

"Well," Greg bit back a smirk, "You're hardly conventional either. You're brilliant! You both need to- ah, I'm _shit_ at advice like this- er- Find _your_ normal."

"Our normal?"

"Exactly. Plus," Lestrade snickered, "I can't bloody wait to rub it in Donovan's face."

Molly laughed, and- God, it felt good to laugh. Perhaps, she'd been overthinking it… They just needed to find their normal.

* * *

 **Day Eight**

Cotton socks stormed over a grey carpet, back and forth, back and forth-

" _Sei un idiota!"_

Viola was done. Well and truly done. England was _stupid._ The British were awful. Her family _abhorrent._

How the hell did everyone think they could lie to her?

It was strange, remarkable even, how grief could alter someone's personality. Thought processes were compromised the moment a person died. Chemical balances shifted, emotions flared, resilience weakened.

The only sensation Viola could liken it to was going mad.

The first day wasn't the hardest. Encompassed with the rock of grief, the collapse of The Grand simply became a _terrible thing_.

Then days passed, and the nightmares came. Well, not _nightmares_ as such. They were memories of Matteo, young, laughing, making love _-_ It was the first time she had dreamt of him in a positive context in _years._ But that wasn't _fair._ Why did she deserve the torment of reliving the days in which she loved him?

If the world wanted her to feel guilty, they were succeeding. Viola knew about survivors guilt. For her, the best solution was _answers_. If she truly knew what happened to Matteo, then surely, she would stop blaming herself? So, she asked.

And everyone lied.

Matteo's shooter was labelled a 'classified government employee', and when she pushed for an identity, Mycroft, who'd been _horribly_ silent around her since his safe return, had the authority to call her childish and unprofessional for criticising his agents.

 _Childish. Sei una fava!_

Sherlock had cut in, claiming defence for her part. John too, using more imaginative English. Her Uncle Mycroft had looked like he'd ate a bunch of sour grapes.

The whole _point_ of the inquest was to form a detailed narrative. Her romantic history was in the documents, but the name of Matteo's murderer wasn't?

Aggravated, exhausted, and plain a _ngry,_ she commenced a mission of her own. If she was as much like _Sherlock_ as everyone said, then surely, she'd be able to solve Matteo's murder?

Every day, she collected the newspapers from the hotel reception and shoved them under the bed. One day, she mentioned to her mamma she wanted an English-Italian dictionary to hand, and she didn't question it. On this evening, when suffering through her friend's routine of reminding her 'we'll all be home soon', she stole one of their phones from the table.

The lights descended, she said _buona notte,_ and then she was alone.

 _The game was on._

Viola Seraphina arose.

The detective in cotton socks and white pyjamas.

Efficiently, she extracted the phone, dictionary, newspapers, procured a pen from a guestbook, and sat in the middle of the floor. The answers had to be here somewhere.

They had to be.

She worked until her brain hurt. The floor became a tapestry of accounts of The Grands' fall: photographs, witness accounts, speculation. They were rearranged, turned, screwed up then neatened again. On the phone, she watched videos over and over. She searched YouTube comments sections, Twitter, even Instagram. Notes were scribbled all over margins of newspapers, on her hands and arms.

Viola gestured, a maestro in front of an orchestra of facts. She hummed, groaned, muttering " _Pensare"_ under her breath until she wanted to scream. The sounds the orchestra made were disjointed, cathartic-

Theories upon theories, names upon names, and _nothing._

 _How_ did Sherlock do it? She thought despairingly, raking a hand through knotted hair.

If Sherlock knew, if John knew, why didn't they tell her? If it was a Secret Agent, then _fine._ If it was a civilian then- Well, why would that be a secret?

This was _absurd_.

Viola sat in molten frustration, sparking ash and flames.

Viola wished Billy was by her side. She ached for his companionship, his smile, his hand against hers-

 _Stop. Don't think like that._

In a world of monsters, Billy had become her shelter. Viola had put him through hell, yet he stayed by her side.

Viola knew he had fallen for her. When they held hands a moment too long, she didn't react. When she had stood before him dressed for The Grand and he had stared in awe, she didn't react. Ignoring it was easier- life was mad and there was no time for games.

 _But you still kissed him, and you know you didn't need to._

She had kissed him to get Matteo's attention. That was all. And she felt horrendous for using him. Yet in that moment her heart had skyrocketed.

Because it was electricity.

Suddenly burning, Viola pushed herself to her feet. Socks contacted newspaper pages. Matteo's face beamed up at her, crumpled ink on tree bark.

 _Is this even about Matteo? Or is this about Billy?_

The force of the thought hit her, like the floor fell out from underneath her feet.

Her entire body lost air.

 _Sono innamorata di lui. …_ I'm in love with him.

Non… _Non!_

This was ridiculous! This was an amalgamation of grief playing a new card. It _wasn't_ love.

And yet…

Billy Wiggins was _phenomenal_. Dressed in ragged clothes was a heart of gold. Viola had always longed for security- And had found it in the man who lived the most insecure lifestyle she knew.

Viola collapsed, numb, limp amongst the newspapers. _Dio_ , she was stupid. Billy was missing, she was leaving, and that was that. There was no future here. There couldn't be.

If this was a love story, it was a tragic one.

Viola had never felt so heartbroken at the thought of being in love.

The Anthropologist had fallen in love with the Homeless Man.

* * *

 **Day Eleven**

"Morning, Sherlock. Tea?"

"if someone offers me another cup of tea I swear I'm going to incite world war three within these very walls."

John rolled his eyes. Day eleven of the inquest had arrived, and Sherlock's patience was wearing thin. Social niceties be damned.

"I take it staying with Mycroft isn't very fun? Not squabbling over comic books, are we?"

"Solitaire is his latest form of torture."

" _Joyous."_

"You should know the renovation of Baker Street is almost complete. This includes the extension to your flat upstairs. I will be moving back in as soon as the inquest is concluded. You and Rosie are welcome. The sooner you can move home, the better.

John's jaw dropped in surprise. After everything, he had hardly given the imminent move to Baker Street a thought. Frankly, he imagined Sherlock had forgotten. But there was a warmth in the way Sherlock sculpted the word _home._ For the first time in weeks, John felt excited about the future.

"There is a lot I need to sort, Sherlock. It will be a couple of weeks yet… Perhaps, you can use this time without me there to be with Molly?"

"Define 'be' with Molly? I have seen her consistently every day for weeks."

John resisted slapping a palm on his forehead. "Listen, I may not know exactly what is going on- But _all_ I'm saying is, if you've got an opportunity to be alone, I'd take it."

"Good heavens, John. What do you expect me to do? Call for a horse and carriage on a lane dusted in rose petals?"

John nearly told him just where he could stick those rose petals. "J _ust_ … Answer me this, because I'm losing my marbles here. Are you still in love with her?"

"Of course."

John's eyebrows shot up at the simplicity of his answer. "Ah- good, mate. Good."

As if on cue, Molly was escorted through the door by a security guard. She seemed brighter, healthier. John beheld his friend, and saw his lips turning upwards in a smile.

 _Still in love with her, indeed._

"Holmes!" A thick accent interrupted.

Turning his head, John was surprised to see Viola's step-father on the approach. Maria and Paolo had been kept aside from the inquest. John wasn't even sure he was supposed to be here.

Paolo beelined directly for the detective, addressing him in Italian. "Holmes, I need to talk to you."

"Analysing your gait it is evident that-"

Paolo grabbed Sherlock's upper arm and pushed him away. "Take us somewhere quiet."

"Pardon-"

"Now, Holmes."

With a grunt of disapproval, Sherlock shook the man's hand away and gestured him into a large bathroom. Sherlock made two steps into the room before a lock clicked shut behind him. He turned and raised a brow, "Am I your _hostage_?"

"I need your help."

"My help?"

Paolo procured a phone from his pocket and thrust it outwards.

And Sherlock's heart stopped.

It was a photograph of a hotel room in disarray. Newspaper clippings were spread all along the floor, pen writing scribbled over photographs. A dictionary was laid open. It left him floored... It was like looking into the workings of his mind.

"…This is Viola's, I presume?"

"She hasn't let us in her room for days." Paolo explained rapidly, "None of us thought much about it. Then this morning me and Maria go in to take clothes we'd had washed for her and find it like this."

Sherlock was hollow.

"Why are you lying to Viola about Matteo?"

Blue eyes snapped into action. "It's classified."

"Fuck that. Do you know how much that boy hurt her? You were there for _none_ of it." Paolo spat, "He abused her, he manipulated her. It was me who dragged him away, that night he tried to force himself on her. The fact you can stand here, and not give her honesty, is _disgusting_ -"

"I'm _protecting_ her."

"From _what?_ Matteo is dead. _Look a_ t what it's doing to her!"

"The answer will cause immeasurable damage."

"Convince me."

"What?"

"Convince me why it's so important to lie."

Sherlock bristled, "I don't owe you anything."

"I raised your daughter whilst you swanned about in drug dens, Holmes _._ You owe me _everything."_

The consulting detective stilled, thoughts grating to a halt. He tensed like a knife was being held against his throat.

"…When Viola ran away, she was helped by Wiggins. A long-time... _Apprentice_ of mine. He protected her. He helped her, he… He fell in love with her. He went into battle for her, determined only to keep her safe."

Paolo held Sherlock's gaze for a long time until eventually, the pin dropped. "…He killed Matteo."

"He saved Viola's life." Sherlock corrected.

"Why hasn't he been arrested?"

"Wiggins… _Struggles._ His diagnosed learning difficulties are many. Predominantly, ADHD. He can't focus long enough to stay in one place, never mind prison. This- keeping Viola unaware, and him free, is the biggest thank you I can give."

"But he killed a man-"

"It's not his fault." Sherlock cut in, "It's not… The Grand, with all of those people, the music, the lights…" Sherlock trailed off, countenance darkening, "Frankly, it was like dropping a lit firework in petrol."

Paolo stared.

"That's why I can't tell Viola. Her actions, completely unknowingly, led him to the state where he wasn't responsible for his actions. This whole affair… It's a tragedy." Sherlock let out a slow breath, unwilling to show his internal turmoil, "I have worked meticulously to make sure this stays hidden, for her sake. I've bribed government officials, taken out favours, signed away contracts… Because she doesn't deserve to have this on her conscious. Not after everything."

Paolo was stunned. "…Holmes, I appear to have misjudged you."

"You and the rest of London."

"You really care for Viola, don't you?"

Sherlock's cheek twitched, "I do."

"I…I won't tell her."

"Thank you." Slowly, Sherlock held out his hand, "Paolo… I am so grateful for all you have done for Viola. I imagine a far finer job than I ever would have done. You're as much her Papa, as I."

Paolo clasped his hand, "Thank you."

With a curt nod, both men headed towards the door and unflicked the lock. Heading out, their daughter's heart sat treasured between them.

From the silence of the bathroom, a hushed noise echoed in the air. Feathers flapping from a passing bird. Another sound- a brushing of feet across tile.

At the corner of the room, stood a small panelled window above eyelines. It was open, just a fraction. But just enough.

Beyond it, in an adjacent bathroom, a young woman was slumped on the floor. Black hair matted with tears clinging to her cheeks. A hand clasped around a jaw, pressing so tightly it shook. Silent sobs whispered into her palms.

The monsters laughed, screamed, and rattled their bones. They grabbed the ceiling and dragged it down on Viola Esposito-Holmes.

* * *

 **Day 13**

The sun was bright on the thirteenth day. If this was a story, Molly reflected that it could be pathetic fallacy. Today, the debrief would conclude. Today, was the end of one chapter, and the opening of another.

Taking her seat, she acknowledged Viola next to her in mild surprise. The young woman, who'd looked remarkably worn and unkempt for days was dressed smartly. Light makeup was on her features, brightening her eyes.

"Hi."

Viola turned and offered a smile. "Hello."

There was something about that smile. Something _off._

"I can't believe it's over, I mean- We can finally relax, can't we? Are you looking forward to going home?"

Viola bit her lip, seemingly in thought. Then she turned and breathed a simple phrase. "It isn't over yet."

Molly blinked. "What-"

"Good morning, everyone." Agent Chen proclaimed smartly, "The sooner we can start proceedings, the sooner we can go home. If you could all turn to page two of the documents in front of you, we will begin."

A sense of relief hung in the air as the monotonous routine ran its final round. Agent Chen spoke through the public release document and final alterations were made.

It may not have been a complete truth, Molly understood, but it was the safest story.

"A necessary fiction for the preservation of the democratic establishment." Mycroft provided.

"Only as fictitious as one of John's blogs." Countered Sherlock, with the hint of a grin on his face.

Eurus Holmes was officially dead by public record, and she would remain as such. Mycroft's role as a public servant had been attributed to accounting the country's international trade; the true extent of his power was downplayed. Though his exact future career hung in the balance, he could remain omniscient amongst the powerful for years to come. Sherlock's past with MI6 was disclosed, partially. Admittance to his assassinations was acknowledged yet heralded as 'classified'. Haggarty, Moran, and Conti's crimes were attributed to personal gain, rather than the working's of Moriarty's surviving, albeit limited, network. They would be charged as terrorists against the crown for their plight to expose national security secrets.

Viola's story was the centrepiece. From Matteo to Sherlock Holmes, to protecting Mycroft. Their wording had made her the protagonist of the tale, the hero. The Italian woman who had saved her English family and sacrificed her heart.

Wiggins was left out of the narrative completely. He would continue as the indistinguishable face on the pavement, the unseen voice asking for money, Robin Hood in the city of monsters.

Scotland Yard, the Metropolitan Police, and MI6 would all be brought to parliamentary discussion regarding their handling of crises, kidnapping response, and communication with the public in due course.

The last matter was the signing of the inquest. Slowly, the master copy of proceedings was passed along. Signatures gathered, one after the other.

As Molly wrote her name upon the paper, her only thought was of Sherlock. Would he look back on this, and be grateful for it bringing them together?

Gently, she slid it over to Viola's hand.

Viola stared hard at the paper, pen grasped tightly.

It was time to let go of Matteo. Here their story was a novel, where it had once been her heart. Love for her had dictated his life, and Billy's love for her had killed him. When the pen met the paper, she accepted it. Accepted what happened and promised to move on.

Viola Esposito was a survivor.

Lip trembling, she pressed the ball of pen to paper.

Her name was crafted, written as it had been many times before.

 _Viola Seraphina Esposito-_ Viola paused, pen frozen, then furthered on.

…. _Holmes._

She saw her new name in her own hand. The new brush on canvas. And, despite everything, it looked right.

"Colleagues, Friends, Confidants… This brings us to the end of our inquest." Chen announced, relief evident in his voice. "Personally, I would like to thank you all for your patience and input in which what has been, I admit, a most taxing period of our lives."

A small applause rang across the table.

"I personally would like to thank Sherlock Holmes for his direction during this case. Your dedication, intelligence, and experience were the cornerstone of our success. Sir, you are a credit to this nation, and to your family."

A louder applause sounded.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, wishing he had the complex to navigate this scene. Everyone was so grateful. S _o thankful_. Frankly, the emotions unnerved him, until his eyes fell upon Molly.

Her brown eyes were wide, understanding. Yet, the corner of her mouth tilted in a smile. When he returned her smile, he didn't notice. The ocean travelled into streams beyond the coastline, entwining with the earth which was hers.

Freedom was theirs.

* * *

"So, Sherlock, how long is feasible to wait before bringing you cases?" Lestrade asked with a grin, doughnut in hand "Because, I'm telling you, we have a _huge_ pile building up."

John snickered, "The Yard coping that badly without him?"

"Of course, they are." Sherlock replied starkly, "Have you seen them try to compete with my superior intellect?"

The men guffawed, nearing the exit.

"Seriously though, Mister-All-Knowing-Prick, when can I bring you in?"

" _Tomorrow_. No," Sherlock's eyes followed his daughter greeting her mother, "When Viola leaves the country. I have a lot of time to make up for."

John and Lestrade shared a look.

"Wow," John mused, bobbing on his heels, "That's… Great, Sherlock. Really."

"It's the Molly-Hooper-Effect." Joked Lestrade.

"Excuse me, the w _hat?"_

"Maturity?" Probed John, "Empathy?"

"I am not partial to any of those things."

"Piss off, Sherlock." Lestrade laughed, "Trust me, you can't always stick to your divisions."

"Oh, here she comes-" John announced, in a hushed tone.

"Fancy a drink, John?" Lestrade asked hurriedly.

"Now?"

"When else?"

"Well, Mrs Hudson has Rosie… Oh, go on. Sounds _excellent."_

" _Chen!"_ Lestrade called.

The Agent looked over. "Yes?"

"Join us for a drink?"

The man looked stunned. "…Are you sure?"

"Of course," John smiled, "Freya? Can we tear you away from work?"

Haugen glanced up with wicked glee, "God, yes."

"Goodbye Sherlock!" Sing-songed John.

"Wait-"

Lestrade suddenly grasped Sherlock's arm, eyes huge. "Don't fuck this up, there's a good lad."

With a small thump on the same spot, the group scuttled off before Sherlock could comprehend it.

"Erm," A soft voice emerged behind him, "Where have they ran off to?"

Slowly, Sherlock turned on his heel, to face Molly.

Unexpectedly, nerves shrouded him. The last weeks had been difficult. Taking a step back from Molly, seeking perspective on their relationship, was supposed to help him understand their path for the future.

It hadn't.

"So," Molly began, after his long silence, "The case is closed." _And ours is open._

"Molly, I have arranged to see Viola tonight. What with her leaving soon, I endeavour to make up for lost time."

"…Right? That's fine."

"But, Ah- I'm moving back to Baker Street, this evening. Please, will you come stay with me? After I've left Viola, of course."

Her jaw dropped slightly, eyes rapidly searching him. The weight of his question making her warm with nerves and anticipation all at once. "Are you sure?"

Suddenly, Sherlock moved closer and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Of course… I've missed your company."

When he pulled away, and saw the blush on her cheeks, he smiled.

Sherlock pivoted, swiftly approaching Viola and Maria. Molly watched him, being courteous to the best extent he was able, and smiled.

Tonight, she would tell him how they could find their normal. Then maybe, just maybe, the impossible could happen. Maybe… Tonight would be the start of Sherlock and Molly-

"Mr Holmes."

The voice was sudden, grave, and professional.

In sync, Viola and Sherlock turned around, to see Molly already looking at the holder of the voice.

It was Anthea.

"Your brother wishes to see you."

Sherlock's eyes rapidly deduced the woman in front of him, but no obvious answers prevailed. However, there was tension in her shoulders, in her hands- She had been sent on a job she didn't want to do.

"Why?" Sherlock questioned, "The case is over. Have I left a sock in his guest room?"

She ignored the jibe, "No. He requires the audience of his family. Now."

"Papa," Viola breathed, "Does he need me?"

"Not you." Anthea shot, a bullet.

Sherlock bristled. "You've been sent on a family matter. One which applies to intimate relatives. Yet, that isn't true when you only want me. So clearly, this is a matter Mycroft wishes to run by me first. One on which we both have recent experience. So, I ask you... What is it about our sister that needs to be discussed?"

Anthea rolled her eyes. "Excellent deduction, now if you'll come with me-"

"Molly comes."

"I don't think that's appropriate."

"No?" He feigned surprise, "But then, why would Mycroft make her his legal family?"

Anthea gritted her teeth, before relenting. "Fine. But don't blame me for the backlash."

"I don't intend to." Sherlock bit.

Viola watched the communication warily, "I'll wait for you to come back. Don't worry."

With a swift nod, Sherlock gestured towards Molly. Anthea left her post and began to lead them away.

The air darkened and grew cold, all at once.

A soft sensation brushed his hand. It was Molly. Subconsciously, heat blossomed over his chest. The gesture was that, just enough, to offer him reassurance.

 _Thank God for Molly Hooper._

Together, they turned a corner, arriving at a door. It was tall and black, whilst the others had been brown. The handle was brass, old, but barely used.

Stealthing himself for battle, he moved inside. Molly at his tail. Anthea watched them go, and shut the door behind them.

The room was for conferences. Pale walls held paintings of London's finest Barristers since Queen Victoria's reign. An audience, for the scene to come.

At the head of a table, sat Mycroft Holmes. If one didn't have a keen eye, they would not have known Mycroft had been under hostage a mere week before. But Sherlock knew his brother. He saw the deeper bags under the eyes. The slight yellowing in between his index and third finger from cigarettes.

Mycroft was nervous about this.

He had been for some time.

Mycroft folded his hands, "Sherlock, did Anthea forgo informing you that this is a family matter?"

"That is why she's here. Molly is family. _You_ made it so."

"Brother mine, this is," He considered his words, "A sensitive matter."

Anxiety doused itself over Molly's skin. For a moment, pain flared in her chest.

"Observing your countenance, it is apparent what you're about to divulge will trouble me. Hence, I consider it vital that Molly stays."

Mycroft raised a brow, "Sentiment is the demise of the establishment, Sherlock. You'd be wise to-"

"-Molly _stays."_

For a moment, the brothers descended into silence.

Eventually, Sherlock shifted. He plopped onto a chair as a scolded teenager would, swinging his feet onto the table. At Mycroft's noise of complaint, he grinned, and gestured Molly to sit.

With an apologetic smile, she took place opposite him.

Mycroft, with an aristocratic frown, began to speak. "In reflection of recent weeks events, I have been forced to consider our problem."

"Our problem?"

"The issue of our Eurus, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, slowly, "She masterminded this entire tangent of our lives. Her deception and control could have killed hundreds of people. If her plans had worked, you would be dead. Doctor Hooper would be dead. Viola too."

"Your point, Mycroft."

"My point is that she presents a danger to society far wider than I ever believed her capable of. As a man in my position, I need to assure our long-term future."

Slowly, Mycroft procured a letter from inside his blazer, and handed it over.

Sherlock shifted his legs off the table. Every single painting watched him eagerly, excitedly, greedily.

For a long moment, Sherlock was still. His eyes scanned the paper once- twice. Pale fingers tightened.

Something was wrong.

Molly looked towards Mycroft and was greeted by a sight she never expected. Whilst Sherlock wasn't looking, he appeared forlorn... _Guilty._

A chill ran through the room. It was from the East.

 _Are you afraid of monsters, brother mine?_

"Mycroft…" Sherlock began, voice small. "…Are you alright?"

Mycroft's gaze hardened. He hadn't expected that. "….This is the best decision."

"After all you've gone through, I've barely spared your recovery a thought. You have always coped immeasurably well in the face of peril. I… I'm sorry I haven't paid you the needed degree of support-"

"Sherlock-"

"-Because _clearly,_ you aren't coping." The sentence finished louder than it had begun. Suddenly, a hand slammed against the table, jamming the letter on the surface. "This is an _abomination._ "

Molly couldn't breathe. Suddenly, the paper was slid across to her. Sherlock waited. He wanted her to be part of this discussion.

Wide brown eyes drifted onto the words below.

 _PERMISSION FOR THE EUTHANASIA OF LAURA EURUS ISABELLA HOLMES._

Her hands flew to her lips. This didn't- Mycroft _couldn't-_

"As you can both see," Mycroft filtered, "There are spaces for four signatories. Sherlock, I had hoped these to be supplied by us and our parents."

"This is illegal!" Molly gasped.

"Rules can be changed, in circumstances such as these, Doctor Hooper. Euthanasia will be a mercy-"

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, a rock of fury. "Decorate it how you wish, Mycroft. _This_ is murder. She's our _sister."_

"You can hardly remember her-"

"Irrelevant. How the hell do you think you'll get signatures of our parents? What, did you think we'll waltz home to Sussex? 'Hello Mummy and Daddy. Remember that daughter you've only just found out is still alive? Can you sign her execution warrant?'"

"Of course not."

"Then _what?_ "

"Sherlock. Please understand, I _tried_. I gave her security, presents, liberties... And she tried to bring a building down on us." A tremor shot down his hands, and he shoved them beneath the table. "Don't you think that when I think of her, I don't see the little girl taking her first steps? That I don't see mummy and daddy's joy at her first word? You don't remember all that, Sherlock, but I do. But that is not Eurus, it hasn't been for a very long time. Honestly… I think with some persuasion, mummy and daddy will understand."

"I don't deserve this, Mycroft. You don't, either. After everything, why prolong this emotional vivisection? We don't need another death on our conscience."

"I'm protecting us-"

"You're protecting your nerves. You do not have the right to play _God_ on our sister's life!"

"It's… Troubling to consider what she could do going forward. Now our family is- well, _changed_." Mycroft sighed, a worn, weary sound, "What will happen when Viola Seraphina one day has children? What if you decide to? How could care for them knowing that a monster truly is hiding under their bed, waiting for its moment to strike? Pirate ships can be destroyed by Eastern storms." Mycroft looked at his brother earnestly, "Sherlock, we must consider the preservation of our family… We have to."

The detective sank back into his chair, head falling into his hands.

Molly was gobsmacked. Where she imagined there'd be harsh retorts and loud words, there were none. Sherlock could see Mycroft's logic. She imagined his mind presenting probabilities and solutions to this, the Issue of Eurus Holmes.

How could they sit there, in their pressed shirts and polished shoes, and consider their potential right to murder their sister?

This wasn't right.

"Sherlock," Molly began quietly, "Tell Mycroft about when you saw Eurus, the day he vanished."

Mycroft's steely eyes were perturbed, "You saw her again?"

"Yes, she summoned me, with the Molitor Stradivarius sent to Baker Street."

"…You didn't mention this in debriefing."

"It's a _private_ matter. I went back to Sherrinford. She didn't communicate with words. Only with her violin. Through this, I realised that Viola was in danger, that John and Molly were lying to me." He frowned, "She played the chorus from _Maria Stuarda-_ I thought it was a taunt, a threat. However... She was trying to trigger my memory. It was a warning."

"That is ridiculous-"

"Perhaps. But music is always open to interpretation. The one thing she did say, was that those I care about would eventually destroy me." He paused, retracing his breath, "But she was wrong."

"What is your point?"

Molly spoke up, "The point is Eurus is capable of making mistakes. She is human. With a personality disorder far beyond the psychosis spectrum, but a disorder all the same. Let Sherlock take you to her, before you make this decision. She has been in captivity most of her life. Give her a chance to see her family. Your parents included-"

"It's too dangerous-"

" _Let them s_ ee their daughter. If Eurus is as perceptive as you say, perhaps she'll know that she's playing for her life. Listen to her melodies. Understand her, before you go ahead."

Molly sat, the sharp eyes of the Holmes' burned her skin.

Pushing himself straighter and wincing, Mycroft addressed the family in his eyeline. "Very well. That seems… _Plausible._ "

"Make arrangements for our travel to Sherrinford. We leave tomorrow."

"Sherlock need I remind you Viola's departing England soon-"

"I refuse to sit and wait for the trigger to be pulled. If this is the path you insist on taking, let's not prolong our suffering. Eurus' included. Now, speaking of my daughter. She has been waiting for me... Hope you sleep well with a gun in your hand, brother mine."

In a flash, he was gone.

Molly shot from her seat, watching the door slam closed. Her chest ached, from the injury or from empathy, she wasn't sure.

"Doctor Hooper."

Mycroft was staring at her, aching for the goodness in her heart. An iceberg drifting away from land. " _Molly-_ Please. _"_

Yet all she saw was the man who wished his own sister dead. Molly swallowed the lump in her throat, shook her head, and left.

* * *

The sky was dark when Sherlock and Viola set off into the night. Security hung around street corners, ready to intercede on any press. Upon these streets he had chased criminals, he had chased dealers with desperate cash in his hands, he had walked with Molly Hooper, blissfully unaware of how she could capture his heart in years to come. Yet with his daughter by his side, they felt new. Their feet trod, as if on fresh snow.

Eurus' laugh rang through his skull, and he pushed it aside. _Tonight is about Viola. Focus on her._

Sherlock wondered what ran through her mind. Did she think of Matteo, of Wiggins, or of himself? An insurmountable time passed between them. Words he wanted to speak didn't come, so he settled on silence. It was safer than bearing his heart.

Eventually, they emerged onto a large square. In the centre, a huge column decorated the skyline.

"This is Nelson's Column, a monument for the Battle of Trafalgar."

Sherlock gestured to her to follow him towards the steps to the National Gallery. The few tourists left at the late hour enjoyed the joy that was London's sights, their laughter echoing between the taxis and buses that moved gently by.

"…Papa, I wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For saving me," Viola spoke softly, "For not rejecting me when you found out I existed. I always imagined you would."

"How so?"

"…When I found out who you were all those years ago I was convinced you would hate me. Now I realise the thoughts weren't my own. Matteo… He told me you would hurt me. I hung onto his every word, naïve child that he was." She sighed, "I am sorry."

"You know, I have had similar reflections of late." He informed her, "When I first overdosed, I woke up in hospital with Mycroft at my side. He was furious but held a stiff upper lip. The only thing he did, was place Italian dictionaries and conversationalist guides on my bed. His words were 'You'll need to keep brainwork constant whilst in rehab. Start with languages. May as well make up for the brain cells you've lost' …It was February 1997."

Viola tensed, "When I was born."

"At the time, I thought it was sick jibe at the fact Maria had abandoned the country. But now, it appears he was preparing me… For you. I never realised- I should have done. I was an arrogant teenager and didn't think twice."

Viola took a moment to take his words in.

"What do you intend to do, when you go back to Italy?"

A dry a laugh escaped her throat, "God knows. Go and study more in Milan, maybe. Live independently."

 _You could have done that here,_ Sherlock thought, stomach dropping.

"I was thinking about focusing my time on Archaeology, more so then ongoing criminal investigations. After all the damage I've caused, throwing myself into the past is probably safer-"

"Viola, no-" Sherlock was gobsmacked, "Your potential doesn't belong in the past."

"Papa," Viola giggled, "Just because a crime happened hundreds of years ago, doesn't mean they don't deserve justice. Perhaps I'll solve the case of Jack the Ripper."

Sherlock snorted.

"What- I could!" She defended. Sherlock was grinning at her, and suddenly, it clicked. "You… bastard! You've _solved_ it?! You know-"

"It is obvious when you consider the-"

" _My Papa_ has solved the case of Jack the Ripper!"

"I have also solved the murder of Yara Gambirasio, Tupac Shakur, and Bob Crane- though Mycroft did help me with that one."

"How have you not told the police?"

"Let's just say, there are some fruitful surprises awaiting in my memoirs."

"You know, I always wondered why I was so strange …It's because I'm related to _this."_

Sherlock chuckled, a full rich sound. It made her smile.

"Viola do be aware that, despite everything, London will always be a home for you."

A breeze pushed through her hair, "This isn't a goodbye, you know? You're welcome in Italy if you can force yourself to abandon Baker Street for more than twenty-four hours."

"Good to know."

"I suppose you'll be settling back home. Will Molly be with you?"

He tensed, and Viola saw, "…Things are undecided, in that regard."

"You love her, and she loves you. What is there to discuss?"

"A lot." He muttered.

"Listen, Papa. If you want my advice-"

"I _really_ don't-"

"Then show her you love her. Don't hold back. She deserves the love she has stood up for. The love she could have died for."

The words struck a chord in Sherlock's internal orchestra. His face remained resolute.

Viola continued, "If I loved someone who'd risked everything for me, and I had the chance to show them how grateful I was. Well, I'd close doubts behind locked doors… I would bare my very soul to them."

Sherlock saw the truth emerging from her words... Viola wasn't talking about Molly. For a moment, he ached to question her. But it wasn't right. Not now.

"…I shall bear it in mind." Sherlock watched his daughter, quiet in thought. "When do you go back?"

"Four days, mamma said."

 _Four days._

* * *

What occurs when the woodland meets the ocean?

Sherlock _hated_ philosophical thinking as a means to understand sentiment. The answers should be typecast as a chemical equation. But Molly was not like this. Scientific thinking would never be enough to understand her.

The Sussex Downs coast was lined with chalk-white cliff faces; tall, daunting, strong, in a constant fight for dominance with the ocean. Whitby met the ocean in the harbour, next to woodland in harmony. Approaching Rubha Reidh was a treacherous road. However, even he, a gentleman with perception beyond the general realms of humanity understood the sheer intensity of standing on that coast, gazing from the lighthouse into the ocean below.

The Detective leaned his onto the car seat behind him. The coastlines continuously changed. The weather shifted, as did the sediments on the ground, the waves' juncture, the wildlife… What landscape would himself and Molly create together? Would they become a thing of harmony, magnificent awe, or two opposite poles dragging viciously against the other?

There was no answer.

"Sherlock?"

The light lilt of Molly's voice interrupted his thoughts like a breeze encouraging waves to shore. Bright blue eyes flicked open.

Molly was watching him studiously from the seat next to him. "We're here."

Beyond the car stood familiar steps, a familiar door, a familiar set of golden letters upon its surface.

 _Home._

For a scarce moment, the world stopped turning. _Home_ as a feeling, an adoration, an understanding washed over his mind in waves.

Swallowing, he addressed the driver- One of Mycroft's men, one he didn't know the name of. "Is the road clear of press?"

"Our teams are holding it steady, though it is quiet anyway at this time, Sir." He replied, tired. _Two children, another on the way. Wife's a vet-_

"Thank you. Molly are you ready?"

 _For leaving this car? Or for being alone with you after so long?_ Molly thought with a touch of trepidation, yet she smiled and nodded.

Sherlock flashed back to business in an instant and pushed out of the vehicle. Molly clicked open the door and opened it. Sherlock materialised beside her, offered his hand, and helped her from the car.

The Detective stepped over to the driver's window, to which the man rolled it down.

"Sir?"

"Be mindful not to buy your wife chocolate with cow's milk. Lactose intolerance can be exceptionally trying, especially for an expectant mother-"

There was a pause.

"Expec- What? No, mate- _Sir-_ Penelope isn't expecting-"

"I think you'll find she is. Goodnight."

With a flourish, Sherlock turned to Molly with a smug expression. They made their way up to the door. The driver spluttering, swearing, and praising deities in rapid cycle behind them. Molly smirked inwardly, _this_ was why she had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Reaching the door, Sherlock's right hand rose to rest upon the brass doorknob and momentarily held it there. His eyes fell shut.

 _Home,_ his mind chanted like a mantra, _You're home._

With determination glittering, he unlocked the door.

Quietly, Detective and Pathologist ascended the staircase, mindful not to awake the sleeping landlady, and opened to the door to 221B.

A warm contentment settled over Molly's heart as she stepped past Sherlock and into the flat.

The people Mycroft had hired to renovate the flat after the explosion had done an excellent job. Where Molly remembered dints in exposed floorboards, was now new carpet. Where the fireplace's guard had been bent, now a pristine one- which still looked aged, somehow, stood in its stead. The furniture was so alike the previous, Molly wondered what had been repaired, and what had been replaced. Yet, it was empty somehow. Billy the skull remained alone on the mantle. He didn't look quite the same without his friends Dust and Clutter. Sherlock had always been criticised for his living quarters, yet Molly _knew_ that the disorder was a personification of his mind. Every item had history. Every burn mark, bullet hole, chemical stain and scratch was part of him.

Perhaps this was a new canvas, for a new stage in his life.

Molly's eyes drew to the smiley-face-less spot on the wall. "I imagine it's what was like when you first moved in."

"It's quite the catastrophe. Everything is too _new._ The air doesn't smell the same." With a flourish, Sherlock stepped to his chair and lifted a violin from behind it.

Molly's brow raised. It was the violin Eurus had used to summon him- _Moliotaur, Minotaur?-_ The one he had left at her flat… How had it got there?

With a flourish, Sherlock struck down with the bow against the strings. A jarring sound rippled through the air.

"Mrs Hudson is _asleep-"_

"The acoustic is different."

"Probably because the room is tidy _."_ Omitted Molly with a giggle. He glared. "Come on, I'm _sure_ this flat will be its messy self in no time. The echo will be caput once more."

The edge of Sherlock's lips turned upwards.

Molly started to tug her coat from her shoulders.

"No- Molly, here-"

Suddenly, Sherlock was behind her, holding the lapels of her coat. Smoothly, he pulled it from her shoulders, lingering a moment too long.

Molly's heart quickened, suddenly overly aware of how alone they were. The past two weeks had been difficult. Yes, they'd spent time together. The odd kiss shared, the odd conversation away from the world. But they were never truly alone. Secret Service Agents, Police, and family were always nearby.

But now the night was still. Life was on a trajectory towards normality, yet this wasn't _normal._ Them, together, wasn't the world they had been in a month before. Ravenous doubts tickled the back of her mind. Suddenly, she was nervous.

"Need I remind you, Doctor Hooper, that you're recovering from a stab wound?"

"I'm fine," She assured him lightly, pivoting to face him. "I _promise._ Look." Expression playful, she lifted her left arm into the air, and spun it around. It didn't hurt, even though the motion was certainly tight.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.

"I suppose," Molly began, moving towards John's chair, "Fresh furniture in the flat is rather fitting, considering your circumstances."

Quirking a brow, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, and flicked a lamp on. The room became alight in an orange glow, brighter than the lamp they'd had previously. "Which circumstances?"

"The last time you stayed here overnight, you didn't have a daughter. You didn't have a sister." _You didn't have me._

Sherlock took place in his chair. Elegant fingers rested in temple position. "Indeed. My state of affairs have shifted remarkably."

His gaze didn't shift, and Molly felt heat spread on her cheeks. Perhaps, he read into her words too.

"I'm glad you're going to see Eurus tomorrow... Do you think Mycroft will change his mind?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched, his fingers tapping against one another, once- twice. "It isn't his decision. It's for our parents to decide."

Molly thought for a moment, "Sherlock-"

"It is a matter of mild irritation that Viola will embark to Italy in four days. This _matter_ with Eurus means our time will be cut short."

This froze Molly's thoughts. Sherlock commenting on irritation was akin to someone confessing a broken heart.

"Sherlock… Are you alright?"

It took a remarkably long time for words to form. "Molly, I never wished for parenthood. Considering my generation's state of genes want of another was an abhorrent notion. But Viola proved to me that my assumptions were wholly incorrect. Before Mycroft disappeared, she was going to stay. The drama of past weeks has scared her away. She says it isn't goodbye, but I doubt, when home, she'll wish to see me again."

"Sherlock- Viola loves you. _Of course,_ she'll see you again."

"Molly-"

"No," She insisted, gaze firm, "You're her father. Being countries apart will not change that."

For a moment, they descended into silence. Sherlock appeared to glow somehow. Blues, oranges, and maroons emanating off him, an oil painting in the dim light.

Mustering confidence she wasn't sure she had, she pushed herself to her feet and over to his chair, sitting upon the arm, lifting his arm off it, and threading their hands together. Sherlock cast her a curious look.

"Talk to me."

He remembered when he'd first heard her utter those words. When they had returned from St Bart's, on the first night he met Viola. Perhaps, more than the phone call at Sherrinford, _this_ was the catalyst that changed their relationship. He had opened to her then, he could now.

"When Mycroft went missing, and I couldn't avoid my feelings for you despite the betrayal, do you recall what I told you?"

Molly tensed. "You said that although you needed me, you were unsure if you'd still want this afterwards."

In Sherlock's mind, the coastline shifted, the waves crashing fiercely against the cliff face.

"Molly, I love you." Sherlock told her, running a thumb ran over her palm. "But I am not sure if this is what I want- I mean, of _course_ I want you. It's more so fear that I can't give you happiness."

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted, eyes closing, "I'm not sure either."

Blue eyes fixed on her. "You're not?"

"I love you. I do… But this- _us,_ is a product of desperation. We found love amid a storm and have been clinging to it ever since." She sighed at his lost face, "Sherlock, you're a rational man. Sentiment doesn't define you. When you came to me in hospital, when you kissed me, you looked _sad."_ Her voice broke, "…It shouldn't be a burden."

Sherlock remained impossibly still beside her.

"I want to be with you _._ But I can't do it if you hate yourself for loving me. If you think it's unnatural, or- I don't know-"

"God, Molly," Sherlock interrupted, voice remarkably low, "This feeling, though unprecedented, has intercepted my bloodstream with more acidity than any drug ever has. It is the most natural feeling I've ever encountered, which in turn makes it the most horrific."

Molly watched him in wonderment. A muscle on Sherlock's neck twitched; in nerves, anticipation, she wasn't sure. The sculpted features on his face were a mask of indecision.

"So, you love me… You want me, but-"

"I find myself lacking the courage to commit." He finished, remarkably quiet, "It appears my addictive tendencies are not planning to let up anytime soon, though."

That caused her to smirk, despite his cathartic tone. Subconsciously, her right hand curled upwards, landing in the centre of his chest. Sherlock's eyes fell closed.

"I have an experiment."

Sherlock shifted beneath her palm. "You do?"

"Although there have been no case studies to prove its success."

Two blue orbs emerged into the light. Molly momentarily bit her lip at the concentrated glance.

"The hypothesis is 'Would Doctor Hooper and Mr Holmes function under a romantic attachment'- Or… A Study of Hooper and Holmes-"

"Sounds worse than one of John's blogs-"

" _Sherlock-_ So, our background research is well documented. We have Subject A: A Consulting Detective with sociopathic tendencies. And Subject B: A Pathologist who's been unsuccessful in maintaining long-term relationships her whole life." Molly smirked, knowing she had Sherlock's complete attention, "The independent variable we would be changing is their relationship status, from platonic to, well… _Not_ that. Previous research indicates this works in trying environments, however, there are no results in a domesticated environment. So, what do we do?"

"We consider the controlled variables."

Molly grinned, pointing a finger confirmation, and pushed herself to her feet. "Precisely! We have… Work. I would not wish our relationship to interfere with my work- or yours." Molly smirked when his brow raised, "Yes, your work is consuming, and dangerous. Yes, you will probably disappear without notice for days on end. But I am not so different- Tom used to get tirelessly aggravated when I'd pull double shifts or disappear in the middle of the night to help the police gather results. I can't go through that… _Irritation_ again."

Sherlock bowed his head nobly. An acceptance.

"Another controlled variable would be- Well," Molly blushed, _be confident, Hooper-_ "Intimacy, I guess." Her words held for a moment, but Sherlock didn't flinch, "I am a hopeless romantic. It is something Subject A and Subject B are polar-opposites in."

Sherlock stood, turning towards the fireplace. "Sex doesn't alarm me, Molly-"

"God, no- I don't mean, _Sherlock-"_

"I told you I want you, does that not compute?"

"Love and sex are not the same thing." Molly shot back.

Sherlock's breath jammed at that.

Molly swallowed, "…I just wasn't sure, that you'd want-"

Frankly, Sherlock was irritated to be having this tedious topic discussed at all. He swallowed and addressed her plainly. "Molly, I don't sit within societies' labels of sexuality. It's… Different, with me. I've never looked at a person and thought them beautiful. It just doesn't- _didn't-_ make sense. Sex is a purely physical matter, regardless of gender, and despite rare indulgences, it is something I can easily live without." He turned to her, eyes sharp but body vulnerable. "Until you. When I realised I wanted you in every way, because of your _beauty-_ It's a sensation I've never felt before. I imagine there are a plethora of psychologists who'd _love_ to scrutinise my brain now this has come about. You're the blip on Sherlock Holmes."

Molly stared, heart-pounding, completely _floored._

Deep down, she knew these were words he'd never uttered out loud before.

"Doctor Hooper, have I rendered you speechless?"

That returned Molly to reality. "You wish." A beat. "So, erm… The final important controlled variable would be a mutual understanding."

"To what effect?"

"That we will respect one another's needs. I will not try to force societal norms upon you. I will respect the fact that this relationship will need to be intensely private for our safety. You respect that if I ask for your honesty, you will give it."

"That's reasonable… So, what's the conclusion?"

Molly stepped around to him softly. "I suppose, we find our normal. If the dependant variable is our happiness, we can evaluate the success in due course and discuss its continuation."

Sherlock's hand found her waist. When he saw her eyes dilate, the sun emerged from the clouds over the coastline. "…We find our normal?"

"Our normal." Molly agreed, eyes dropping to his lips. Heart rising in her chest, she pressed herself upwards-

"Wait-" Sherlock cut in, "Molly, I cannot promise you a stable life. My existence is fraught with danger, and that would become yours, too. Chasms of Moriarty's network, are, as we know now, still active. Our road will not be a smooth one… But I vow to love you. As much as I understand." His eyes searched her for acceptance, "Is that enough?"

Unable to formulate a verbal response, unable to think clearly, she summoned up the force of a tidal wave and acted on her most human instinct. One hand sculpted his jaw, and she pressed his lips to his. The movement was small, chaste, and achingly brief.

Inches apart, noses touching, she managed a soft phrase, "Let's find our normal, Sherlock Holmes."

Without thought, he pulled her towards him, and claimed her lips with his own.

The world turned on its axis. Music exploded. The symphony returned with an overture of such magnificence it permeated earth, ocean, ringing through the crashes of waves and waterfalls. Sherlock compared it to nothing less than a celebration. This was the power of Molly Hooper. And it was impossible.

Small hands found his chest, waist, and back, drawing patterns and striking nerves he hadn't known existed.

Sherlock laced his fingers through her hair, making expert work of freeing her ponytail and smirking against her lips at her small sound of surprise.

What happened, when the ocean met the woodland?

With determination skyrocketing, Molly frantically untucked his shirt from his trousers, and instantly her fingers were dancing underneath across scars old anew on his stomach. Sherlock's breath hitched. Molly was anointing them. His synapses applauded her, worshipped her, deductions dissipating into nothingness except for what was _her._

 _Sherlock, she's injured!_ A voice, disjointed, echoed across the wave's violent crashes. It was John's.

"Molly-" Sherlock gasped out, suddenly grasping her shoulders, " _Molly."_

Flustered, she kissed the pane of his chest once more. God, he was a mess. And the cause of it did not seem bothered in the _slightest._

"Yes?"

"…You're injured- I don't-" _Surely you can make a bloody sentence?_ "I don't want to hurt you."

He observed her face, flushed with lust in the most tantalising way replace itself with a warmer smile. "Sherlock," She breathed, "I _promise_ you, I'm fine."

"You're favouring your right side. Your shoulder and movement from your left upper body suggests-"

"Not _perfect,"_ She assured him, "But fine. Sherlock… Please."

"If there is _any d_ iscomfort-"

"I will tell you. If not, you'll read it from me in an instant." Molly giggled, but sobered, "I'm yours. If you want me."

Like a ship creaking against a gentle wave, his hands dropped to the hem of her top.

Tenderly, he guided it upwards, being extremely careful not to cause her any pain. The cool air drifted over her newly exposed skin like an ocean breeze. His gaze was so intense, so _careful,_ upon her, she almost whimpered out loud.

Without words, he dropped the material to floor. His eyes, intelligent and raw, never leaving her.

Deftly, his fingers traced her hips to her waist, to her chest. Achingly, his hands found the spot where the blade had landed.

Molly forgot how to breathe.

For a long moment, he was still.

Suddenly, his head dipped, just enough- And his lips pressed upon that very spot. Molly's legs nearly caved. A strong arm caught her waist and held her steady. Suddenly, the weight of everything- Her mortality, Viola, Mycroft, Eurus and the world were felt within the gesture.

"Beautiful."

The word was hushed, ghosted against her skin. London was completely silent around them.

Slowly, Sherlock stretched himself upright, meeting her eyes. Molly managed a lopsided smile, and it relaxed him. Silently, she fingered the last of his shirt buttons, and he shrugged it off his shoulders.

For a moment, they stared at each other. In complete awe.

"I can't believe we're about to do this," Molly whispered with a nervous giggle, "Our friendship will be well and truly ruined."

Suddenly, Sherlock chuckled, "You found me intolerable anyway."

"Shush you-"

Sherlock silenced her with his lips on hers, moving with a definite intention. Electricity jolting between them until there was no air, and he was lost within her heart. He pressed their foreheads together, "I love you, Molly Hooper… Let's find our normal, shall we?"

Molly grasped his hand, "Onwards, Mr Holmes."

With a mock salute that caused a hearty laugh to emanate from her throat, Sherlock pulled her towards his bedroom. The Study of Hooper and Holmes was well and truly commenced.

One could comment on how the ocean met the woodland on a dark night on a London street. However, that moment, after everything, was just for them.

* * *

 **Well... There we are. At last! Do you have questions? Viola has sat very quietly on _that_ secret, what do you think she's going to do?**

 **One more chapter to go, folks! Oh my goooodness!**

 **So excited to hear your thoughts. If anyone has anything they want to see in the final chapter, would love to hear it!**

 **See you at the next one!**


	24. The Dancing Pirates

**Well, Ladies and Gentlemen... Here we are.**

 **The final chapter of this story. Wow, wh** **at a journey it's been...**

 **Settle in, relax, grab a cuppa. This chapter is long, but our characters have one more story to tell. We pick up where we left off. Sherlock and Molly have spent the night together. John, Lestrade, Freya and Chen had left for celebratory drinks of sorts. Viola knows Wiggins' secret, yet has no way of contacting him.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

"Aye! Ye fight in the oceans!"

"You are a scallywag, Yellowbeard! Yo-ho! Yo-ho!"

Pirates danced in puddles, swords wielded in the air. Rainfall cascaded down youthful faces.

Yellowbeard was the master of the sea. The legend who'd slain the loch ness monster jumping from a log. The warrior who'd saved mermaids from Atlantis blowing dandelions. The sailor who unearthed buried treasure: chocolate coins hidden under rocks.

Yellowbeard was a captain of a ship, _The Crooked Lady_. His crew were named after primary colours. There was Bluebeard, though he rarely came onto deck. Bluebeard preferred mummy's scones to hunting gold- _the Boatswain_! Then there was Firstmate Redbeard. Redbeard always followed Yellowbeard into puddles.

Redbeard spun, leapt, laughed. Red hair clung to his forehead. Then, in the reflection, he saw something.

And stilled.

 _I that am lost, oh who will find me…_

"Yellowbeard… Who is that?"

The Great Yellowbeard pouted, wiping rain from his eyes, "Don't stop dancing Redbeard! If we do the maidens will not be saved!"

A pale finger gestured into a puddle. "…Is it a monster?"

Rain travelled from the boy's finger into the water.

 _Drip- drip- drip-_

Yellowbeard's grin fell. Slowly, spotted wellingtons made their way closer- _splish, splosh-_

Redbeard was staring. Rain matted his eyelashes.

"…Redbeard- Stop acting funny, there is no monster."

 _Deep down below the old beech tree…_

Then he looked down, curious eyes open wide.

There was a girl in the puddle. A girl with a sad face.

But she wasn't a reflection. The girl was _under t_ he water.

"Redbeard-" Yellowbeard whimpered, "Redbeard, let's go back inside."

The boy didn't move.

Yellowbeard looked up. Brother Bluebeard would be able to explain this. Brother Bluebeard was clever. Yet… Brother Bluebeard wasn't there.

Yellowbeard began to cry, hot tears mixing with the cold rain. "Redbeard, you're scaring me… _Please, Redbeard-"_

Redbeard's head turned. Yellowbeard didn't know where rain ended, and boy began.

 _Help succour me now the East winds blow…_

A white hand emerged from the puddle, achingly slow.

The leathery hand gripped the pirate's ankle.

" _Redbeard!_ Come back, _please_ Redbeard!"

"…Goodbye, Sherlock."

 _Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!_

Within a flash, Redbeard vanished into the water.

Yellowbeard screamed. He scrambled forward on hands and knees. Small hands fisted at the water and threw it away. "Redbeard!" He cried, again and again. The water he moved was replaced by rain. Redbeard was gone. There was no-

A gasp whispered through London's night.

Blue eyes opened.

Life attached to Sherlock Holmes like a tidal wave, capsizing his dream into the abyss. Frantically, a palm flew to wipe water from his brow… But it came back dry.

With a rough sigh, he laid his hand back down onto the bed, and froze.

Molly Hooper was laid in his arms.

Sherlock gulped, tilting his head back into the pillow, catching his breath- His _sanity._

Beyond the thunder clouds, memories permeated the mist.

 _Languid breaths, laughter, exploring eyes, hands gripping his back, lips against his pulse point, legs against his waist, holding Molly, feeling Molly, worshipping Molly, chanting Molly-_

Though the nightmare scratched the back of his neck, the warmth that spread throughout his chest fought it with a vengeance. The rainfall was replaced by sunrise, the soft motions of her breath waves arriving on the shore.

Molly Hooper was the most powerful antidote to his inner demons.

Glancing down at her, he could scarcely breathe. Molly's head was laid on the pane of his chest, hair fanned out around her, lips slightly parted. In the night, she'd curled around him. One leg hooked over his own, one arm draped across his chest.

Their quilt had drifted down to her hips- Which he was grateful for, not used to the heat of another person at his side- his eyes travelled down her shoulders to the dip of her waist.

In one night, she had transformed his perception on intimacy. Yes, Sherlock wasn't alarmed by sex. It was biological science after all. Chemical responses in the brain triggering nerves and hormones in the body leading to procreation was hardly _alarming._ However, the need for the act if not wishing for procreation hardly made sense. This is what triggered his experiments as a teenager- Ironic, that it had resulted in his daughter. His sexual experiences had always been for his own gain: experimentation, stress relief, even manipulation. Mycroft had once called him virgin, and Sherlock wondered what he wished for by it. But now, he was forced to consider that he was that, a virgin, when real intimacy was involved. In a singular moment, he had never been as vulnerable or as powerful.

Honestly, he hadn't expected it, despite loving her. He had expected to find the act pleasurable, but pointless. But it wasn't _like that_ with her. The immensity of the feeling was overwhelming. Now awake, he found himself aching for her touches... _God, I'm becoming like John._

Smirking at his internal jibe, he leaned his head and-

' _Yellowbeard!'_

Sherlock jolted. The whisper had brushed against his earlobe. Frantically, he pushed onto his elbows, eyes scanning the shadows and dark corners of his bedroom. There was nothing. _Of course, not._ Sherlock understood his subconscious complex well enough to understand that these sensations were down to Mycroft's plot to have their sister euthanized.

His nerves splintered.

"Sherlock?"

Two small hands landed on his chest. Blue eyes left the dark corners and landed on brown eyes.

"What time is it?"

He glanced over at his clock. "Half five."

Molly groaned, and it made him smirk. "Go back to sleep, Molly Hooper."

A small knit in her brow appeared. She'd seen right through him. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "A sense of impatience to have The Issue of Eurus resolved."

Molly shuffled. Sherlock could only stare as she drew herself from the quilt and clambered over his thighs.

"Molly-"

"What can I do?"

 _Absolutely everything._ "Nothing."

Slowly, her hands traced from his stomach up towards his chest. She admired the way he tensed beneath her. "Sherlock… You can talk to me. I know this is awful. I know everything should be over, but it isn't yet… I won't judge you."

The warm feeling was rushing in again, warming the sand beneath his toes. Here she was, opening his heart, wearing nothing except a bandage on her chest.

"I require a distraction. Manifestations of inner demons are restless upon our indecision to her fate. …I rarely admit to trepidation, but, being forced to see her again, after her actions nearly killed you… I fear I won't be able to control my instincts. That I will become stupid, as Mycroft has."

Molly listened, then shifted again, small hands cradling his jaw.

"You will be strong. You will show your brother how not be ruled by fear. Trust your instinct, trust your heart. No matter what happens, you are still Sherlock Holmes. An Eastern storm won't change that."

Floored, Sherlock moved on his first instinct. Pushing higher, he pressed his lips against hers. Molly raised her hands to hold his jaw, and he sighed against her. Eventually, he let his elbows slide, and she followed, never letting them part. Passion found them rapidly, the ocean beat rapidly against the coast.

Together, they would fight until the ends of the earth.

* * *

" _Mmmmpff_ _…"_

Consciousness arrived as a burning sensation. The front of his skull flared. John groaned, but then winced _because_ he groaned. His tongue was sandpaper against a rougher surface. As he fuelled courage to open his eyes, the light stabbed his synapses.

A baritone echoed across his skull; _Well done, John. Bravo._

" _Nnnngh…_ _Piss off, mghh Sherlock_ -"

"Pardon?"

John jumped out of his skin with a shout, suddenly on gripping into a table for dear life.

"Don't fall out of that chair, there's a good soldier."

Blearily, John opened his eyes. A wave of nausea gripped him. …He was in his kitchen. Yes, this was his table. Yes, this was his house. Finally, he looked up at the source of the voice.

And his stomach dropped.

Leaning against his kitchen side, was none other than Agent Freya… In one of his shirts.

"Now, before you tell Sherlock to piss off again. He's not here."

She turned, picked up a glass and two tablets behind her, and placed them in front of him. Her red hair was tied neatly in a bun, yet it was lopsided.

"What- _Jesus, my head…_ "

She raised a brow, "Lestrade was right. You are a lightweight. Sheesh."

"Lestrade?" _Oh-_ that was right. Lestrade had been here. Agent Chen, too- had they left?

As if reading him, she smirked, getting her own glass of water. "Lestrade is happy as an old dog snoring in your bath right now. Jian's for some reason in your daughter's room-"

"Shit!" John yelped, scrambling to his feet, " _Shiiiit!_ She's still with Mrs Hudson- She's going to skin me alive-"

"You called her last night, don't you remember?"

"…No?"

"Well, you did. The landlady said she'd be fine with her. You celebrated with a fourth pint, and a fifth, then gin, then brandy…"

He was too old for this. "Please help me… I'm totally lost."

With a simpering glare that for some reason reminded him of Mycroft, she shrugged. "We celebrated the end of the inquest."

"Right…." John paused, taking a huge breath, "Why are you wearing my shirt?"

For a moment, she stilled. Then with a gentle smile, she explained. "Jian spilt wine on my blouse. You let me change. You didn't want me wearing Mary's clothes, so-" Her arms gestured, "Here I am."

John blinked, before visibly deflating. "Thank God."

"Why… What did you think?"

"Nothing." He shot back quickly, knowing full well she understood.

With a groan, John slumped back onto the same seat he had somehow slept. Agent Freya sat opposite him, observing. How a hungover woman could still have that sharpness in her eyes, he didn't know.

"Stop looking at me like that." John grimaced, index fingers against temples.

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to do some spy wizardry on me."

"John," She laughed, "I'm a Chief Operative. I'm hardly James Bond."

"May as well be if you work for Mycroft."

A light laugh sounded from her throat, and it caught John's attention. It humanised her somehow. Throughout everything, Agent Freya had been professional. Kindness emanated off her, but it was a dangerous sort of kindness. He'd love to know what she had been like the night before, if only his brain would keep up with him.

"Let's sober you up a bit, then kick the others out so you can bring Rosa home."

"Rosie." John corrected absently, then paused, "Wait, you've done that before."

He'd expected her to knock the comment away with a witty remark. He had not expected tension to draw on her face.

"Simple mistake."

"No… Not really. You oversaw Rosie's care a lot during the investigation, yet, you think she's called Rosa?"

"Rosa is short for Rosamund."

"…I didn't tell you her name was Rosamund."

"No, but your security clearance did."

"Your boss was missing yet you took the time to look at the full version of my daughter's name?"

Freya held his gaze, hard. "Why do you need an explanation for this?"

"Because…" He struggled for words, "Because you're weird."

"I'm _weird_."

"Yes!" John pointed a finger at her, "Yes, you are. Sitting with our family during the inquest like you're one of us. Calling Sherlock William when he had that freak out…" He stopped, then his eyes widened with a huge realisation, "Oh my God. I've just remembered… All those weeks ago, Sherlock asked me if I _remembered_ you! I _bloody_ forgot about it."

She paled. "Why did he do that?"

"…He said you were at our wedding." John finalised, eyebrows knitting dramatically. "Mine and Mary's wedding. Why would you be there… A MI6 Chief Operative… Why wouldn't I remember?"

Freya didn't say a word.

Suddenly, the air dropped out of John's lungs. He stood, dizzy, and placed his palms on the table for support. Realisation eclipsed his mind like another shot of brandy down his throat.

"…Rosa is short for Rosamund. Mary never went by Rosie, did she?" His eyes clamped shut, willing his head to stop burning, "People called her Rosa."

Silence.

"Some people did call her Rosie… Not many, though. She… She preferred Rosa."

John thought he was going to pass out, or throw up, or- _God,_ he couldn't think. All he knew was that this woman knew his dead wife. John had never met anyone who knew the woman before Mary. Not like this.

"…How did you know her?"

Freya visibly debated her next words, before deciding on honesty. At least, what he hoped was honesty. "CIA. We trained together- Many years ago. Then she decided to specialise in- Well, you know what. So, she took that job, and I only saw her rarely after that."

John couldn't believe his ears. "…She was American. I never knew, not for sure."

"American Polish," She told him, expression extremely careful, "…Rosa Czerwinski. Her parents immigrated from Szczecin, I seem to remember."

By the time her words finished, hot tears were forming in John's eyes. When Mary had died, he had allowed her past to die with her. For he loved Mary Watson and that's who she was. But things had changed now. Because one day, Rosie would ask. The life as Mary Watson was beautiful, but that wasn't the woman's whole story. John owed her daughter the truth, when she was old enough to understand. Now the answers were sat in front of him. Hungover and sleep-deprived, it was too much to handle.

"What… What was she like?"

"She was wild, talented, hilarious, didn't take any bullshit from junior agents-" John laughed at that, "…But she was caring; Motherly, even in her twenties. When she announced her choice of specialism, half the team knew she wouldn't last. Her heart was too sensitive to live her whole life like that. Her skill was incredible, but it wasn't for her."

Suddenly, to John's surprise, a hand came out against his own. It took his breath away.

"When Rosa got in touch to says she was getting married, I couldn't believe it. There were two of us there, the day of her wedding." She smiled sadly, "We worked on the bar… I brought you your first champagne as a married couple."

"…I can't believe it."

"Obviously, Sherlock saw me which made things awkward, but-"

"Why?"

Freya pulled her hand away. "I work for Mycroft. Sherlock knew me. He didn't understand why I was there undercover. He didn't know about Rosa, then."

"…He didn't work it out?"

She shrugged, "No. I told him I was giving him a spot check. Thank God he believed me."

"Why would Sherlock need spot checks?"

Freya frowned, like it was obvious. "I'm Sherlock's supervisor for his work with MI6. Well, I _was,_ until he retired after The Grand fell _."_

 _This_ was news to John. He held back a million questions. "…Why did he need spot checks though? Did he take drugs when dissolving Moriarty's network or something?"

Green eyes watched him warily. "…You really don't know, do you?"

"About what?"

"About the months before Sherlock came back from the dead? About Molly, and-"

"Goood morning, John!" Suddenly, the door swung open. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood before them, tie undone, shirt untucked. "Mate, you got a downstairs loo? Chen's vomming in your upstairs one."

John's head collapsed in his hands.

"Another time," Freya told him quietly, "This is the story for another day. How do you fancy coffee?"

* * *

Today it was an old lady with olive skin.

There was always someone on the street corner. No matter what time, or weather, the figure was always constant. They changed regularly, from man to woman, old to young, yet their persona was always the same. Worn clothes, a depleted demeanour, one hand continuously reaching outwards for the goodness of people's hearts. Far too often, getting nothing in return.

They never looked up, yet they were a constant in the scenery of the city.

Was Viola wrong, to think Billy had people watching her?

Perhaps she was kidding herself. She had always been imaginative, connecting ideas that were not related at all into something of cohesion. Perhaps, she only noticed the figures because she wanted it to be Billy.

Viola sighed, forcing aside the hot lump that had threatened to burst for days.

She'd been a fool, to lead him into The Grand. It was her idea, her mission, her _drama_ that had brought them there. Viola had acted like a little girl. He was a vulnerable man, and she had played his emotions like a puppet master.

In all her life, Viola had never felt so conflicted with feelings about a person. For days, she had sat upon this secret, feeling nothing but indecision.

Viola should hate Billy for pulling the trigger that killed Matteo. At first, she had _tried_ to do that. She had stormed around her room, ripped the newspaper clippings to shreds, anything to muster up the _feeling s_ he anger. Yet she couldn't. She'd thrown everything out the next day.

How could she be angry? He'd risked his very freedom, his future, his _heart_ for her.

She wasn't angry, no… She was _grateful._

If only she could show him that. The thought of him, suffering with guilt broke her heart. Guilt was a cancer on a soul as good as his.

 _Knock knock-_

Viola jumped at the sudden sound. Quickly brushing down the summer dress she wore, she raced for the door and pulled it open.

"Vi! You're _never_ going to guess who's just called your mamma!"

Brunette hair raced past her, arms flying outwards.

Viola blinked.

"Oh, I've never known anyone deserve anything so much in my _life!"_

Viola giggled at her friend, Noemi's, wild demeanour. Neomi had been Viola's closest friend for years. They'd grown up in San Gimignano together, both from vineyard families. Two years her senior, Neomi had been a mentor of sorts to Viola growing up. She was a firecracker, the definition of the feisty Italian. In fact, it had been Neomi who had introduced Viola to Matteo; They'd been friends at school. Funny, where that had taken them. But their friendship was indestructible. Viola had been wholly unsurprised that she had dropped everything to rush to Viola's aid when she'd vanished thousands of miles away. She would have done the same thing for her.

"Okay- First _breathe."_ Viola laughed, _"Now,_ tell me what's happened."

"Right. So, Viola. You remember, when you first came to London, you thought you were presenting a paper to the Royal School of Pathology?"

Viola stiffened. Yes, of _course,_ she remembered. It had all been a ruse, by Sherlock's psychotic sister; The first move that sent her life into madness.

"…Yes?"

"Well!" Neomi pulled her over to the bed. "Turns out your _papa_ has pulled some strings. You're still going to present that paper!"

Viola's body lost air.

"…Say something!"

"…I-I don't know what to say." Viola spluttered. "Why would he do that?"

"My guess is he feels guilty for turning your life upside-down. That, or he doesn't actually want you to go."

Viola quietened.

"Hey, Vi… Are you okay? I know everything's been hard but, this is an opportunity you more than deserve."

"I just can't believe he'd go this far to show me he cares. A month ago, my Papa was simply a drug addict who'd broken mammas heart. Now, he's the genius who saved me. Who w _ants_ to be my Papa."

Neomi sat up and wrapped an arm around Viola's shoulders. "You, Viola Seraphina, are absolutely amazing. You've earned this. You will show the world that you're not just a victim of a tragedy… You'll show them the intelligent Queen that you are." Neomi leaned her head on Viola's shoulder when she laughed. "This tragedy that's happened, you can turn it around. You can go back home with a brighter career and a Papa who cares. Let's focus on that."

Viola nodded with a watery smile, and together they went to fetch their other friend, her mamma and step-papa, to help her get prepared. As everyone excitedly helped her prepare notes, clothes, and papers, Viola glanced briefly towards the window.

The old woman under the shop doorstep briefly looked up at her and smiled.

* * *

It was an unseasonably warm morning. The sun breathed warmth onto skyscrapers and tarmac alike.

Warm skies were not apt, when going to decide on one's sister's execution. The ocean should have been swept by a storm, and yet the tide was calm. However, Sherlock knew the irony of the blue skies. The sun had shone this brightly, the day Victor Trevor had disappeared.

As he was driven towards Northolt Jet Centre, where his family would be flown to Sherrinford, Sherlock's brain itched with anxiety. He didn't want to see Eurus. He didn't want to face her emotionless face, her jarring music, her manipulating eyes. Leaving Molly, calm and sated in his sheets had been nothing short of torture. She had become the hearth of his home. But he had to focus now. Focusing on factual reasoning was the only secure method of getting through this.

 _Be clinical. Be cautious. Protect our family._

Muttering a quick thank you to the driver, he made expert work of the car door and swept out into the sunlight. Swiftly, he procured his violin case. His weapon for the battle ahead.

Mycroft was stood a few feet away, surprisingly on his own. His umbrella wielded like a walking stick. Sherlock's deductions flew in effortlessly but didn't provide any comfort. If Sherlock was nervous, Mycroft was terrified.

"You've not slept in thirty hours." Stated the detective.

"You've had sex... _Twice._ "

"I hardly think my basal activities are worth discussion, Mycroft. Not when you're holding a gun to our sister's head."

"Perhaps." His lips tightened, ever so slightly. "Though I did think carnal behaviour would wait until a _fter_ this. Sentiment and hormonal release will blur your logic."

"So will trauma that you refuse to get help for." Sherlock shot back, eyes cutting.

For a split second, a crack appeared in the ice man's façade. His brother wasn't coping. Being kidnapped had left him humiliated. His privacy, the epicentre of his world had been shattered to smithereens. His future work job role would be altered, now the world, and its terrorists knew who he was. Despite everything, it was a fate he didn't deserve.

"Sherlock, I arranged for Viola Seraphina to meet with research teams at the Royal School of Pathology today. Hopefully the distraction will bide time for her, whilst we're away. I personally communicated with her mother and told her that the decision had come from you." He paused, visibly calculating the best means of communication, "Hopefully, it will ease your daughter's feelings of grief. Losing purpose after tragedy is a dangerous feat."

Just like that, Sherlock was stunned.

"Why not claim responsibility for the action yourself?"

"After every unfortunate event triggered by my disappearance, The least I could do was give her incentive to show her how much you care. To assure the continuation of your relationship, going forward."

For all of Mycroft's manipulation, Sherlock saw plainly that his brother was _trying t_ o make things better. He was torn between two strains of thought, one wishing to thank him profusely, the other wanting to lay claim that this wouldn't change the fact he wished their sister dead.

"We need to be strong, Sherlock. For our parents." Mycroft began stiffly, "Don't… Don't let them see I'm weak. Eurus will see right through me. I need to know," His cheek clenched, "That you will protect me, too. Please."

Sherlock stalled.

Mycroft Holmes didn't _beg-_ Not ever.

In stiff silence, the sound of wheels upon tarmac arrived in the brother's ears. Mycroft let out a huffed breath, ignoring the itch in his palm for cigarettes.

"Into battle, brother mine. We fight for them today."

A car pulled over, and doors swung open. Frantic and flustered footsteps grazed the ground, running, scrambling-

A blur passed in Sherlock's peripheral, and he was accosted into warm arms.

The motion sent reality bursting back through his body. Suddenly, he desperately forced oxygen down his throat. Hands were around his arms, a face buried in his chest. A familiar scent graced his senses, and for a moment, he almost moaned with joy. It was a motion he had entirely unanticipated when being reunited with his mother. He didn't recall being so moved by her presence in well over a decade.

"Sherlock," She sobbed, gripping his coat, "Oh my boy- You're safe, you're safe."

"Mother-"

Violet Holmes stared at him, red-faced, and smiled, a genuine, motherly smile. "…Sherlock, I am so proud of you. You saved our son, our granddaughter, Doctor Hooper… All those hundreds of young people. I have never felt so proud, to call you our son."

* * *

A pleased hum fell from Molly's lips as Sherlock's shower jutted to life.

Standing, she gently eased Sherlock's dressing gown off her shoulders, and hung it up on his doorframe. As she pulled her hair over her head and secured it in a haphazard bun, she marvelled over how bizarre the situation was. Here she was, Molly Hooper, getting set for the day in Sherlock Holmes' flat. It felt remarkably domesticated, and she couldn't believe how much had changed within the last few weeks.

Briefly, she glanced up in the mirror, and blushed. Dark red tattoos of his affection dotted the curve of her neck, the side of her breast. All on the side that was injury free. It was… Maddening, to think that those marks had come from none other than Sherlock Holmes. Inwardly, Molly's lip pulled up into a smirk. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was, in apparently _every_ facet of his life, was _thorough._

With a content- albeit pleased- smile, she slipped into the water. A few minutes passed in blissful quiet.

"Hoo-hoo!"

A knock on the bathroom door echoed.

"Morning Sherlock! Oh, I'm so happy you're home. I've brought you some breakfast up. Rosie's still here, I'll wait with her for you to get ready. Now… I'll leave you to it. Promise I'm not a peeping Tom! Hah!"

Molly stared, a deer in the headlights, blinking soap water from her eyes. "I-It's not Sherlock, Mrs Hudson," Her arms floundered as her mind blanked, a palm slapped against her forehead, "It's Molly… Good morning?"

There was an extremely long silence at the other side of the door.

"…I'll be in the living room, dear. Don't worry, the tea will keep warm." Then, she added, "I'll make sure of it."

 _So much for a peaceful morning,_ Molly thought, not knowing whether to laugh or cringe. Regardless, the past twenty-four hours' madness didn't plan to let up anytime soon.

As she turned the shower off and discretely slipped back into Sherlock's bedroom in a towel, her heart was fast against her chest. With practised hands, she changed the dressing on her chest and got dressed.

Thank God she'd brought a high neck top with her. She imagined the sight of love bites would be the landlady's undoing.

Summoning courage she knew wasn't a staple of her nature, she opened the door and stepped onto the landing, making the short journey into the living room.

Mrs Hudson was sat in Sherlock's chair, looking remarkably like the consulting detective himself. Small aged hands were steepled under her chin, and she watched the pathologist like a hawk.

A giggle broke her reverie, and Molly glanced to the sound. Rosie was sat on the cleared floor, teething toy held in small hands.

Mrs Hudson hummed. "John was with friends last night, apparently. Wasn't going to be able to get Rosie until at least two in the morning. I told him I would look after her."

Molly wanted to ask questions, but they held on her tongue. Clearly, Mrs Hudson had a more important agenda than discussing Rosie. With a small nervous pull of the lips, she sat in John's chair.

For a moment, Molly was completely held under the unmoving gaze of Baker Street's matriarch.

"Molly," Mrs Hudson began, "I am a worldly woman. In my lifetime, I have seen many things, I've done many things. However," She thought for a moment, "I have never witnessed Sherlock Holmes bring a woman to his flat sober, if ever."

"…What about Janine?"

"Molly dear, he was off his rockers. And I doubt anything happened there." Whimsically, she shook her head, "This… This is new. So, I ask you, as one woman to another, what exactly has happened with you and my lead tenant?"

Molly fiddled with her hands a little. The landlady wasn't smiling, but neither was she frowning… No, her eyes were sharp, keening, prying. _Oh,_ Molly thought, _She's after gossip!_

"We-" She struggled for words, "After everything, things have changed. I'm sure you know that."

Mrs Hudson nodded, unmoved.

"It's all a little new, and I'm not sure how much you know, but- Well- Me and Sherlock… We're together." A blush forced it's way onto her cheeks, "I'll spare you the details… But we are… We're definitely together."

For a long moment, Mrs Hudson was as still as the walls around her.

Then, she squealed. Her feet ran a small race on the singular spot she sat, then she leapt to her seat, praised deity, and flung her arms around the discombobulated pathologist. Molly had no idea she was capable of such a burst of energy.

Suddenly, Molly's phone sprung to life.

"Oh, sorry- Can I?"

"I'll get the tea on, shall I? Then you have to tell me _everything!_ " Mrs Hudson announced, then turned, taking in Molly once more. "…Well done, petal. Never thought I'd see the day."

With a smug grin as Mrs Hudson retreated, Molly glanced at her phone and pulled it to her ear. "Hello? …Oh, morning Viola! Is everything okay?" She brushed hair behind her ear, "Sherlock what? Oh, of course I'll come and help you! I'll be there soon as I can."

* * *

Polished shoes walked down a silent hallway, a hundred miles from home. They left behind a daughter, a lover, a flatmate and the city that held their soul.

They walked within a maze of monsters.

It was a pirate's duty, to face the monster's men on land would not perceive possible. That's what all the storybooks had said, all the songs, all the rhymes.

So, Sherlock Holmes walked, a pirate in a Belstaff coat. Wielding a violin as a sword. Ready to fight the world's most dangerous monster.

If he were the pirate that ruled the seas, then this monster was the God who ruled the wind that moved it.

The monsters' name was Eurus, after all.

As his steps rounded towards the monster's prison at the edge of the earth, the pirate found himself forcing away the wants of land. Of Molly Hooper, and her golden heart. Of Viola, and her blistering intelligence. His heart thudded in his chest, like a ghost walking upon the deck. A ghost of a little boy with red hair.

 _Pirate ships can be destroyed by Eastern storms._

The siren called him to the plank, and he walked, head held high, danger in his blood, and jumped into the depths of the sea.

The door brushed open.

The monster sat, shrouded in a cloth of white. Black hair fanned around her shoulders. She stood in the centre of her prison, eyes fixating upon the pirate the moment he became visible.

Pirate before monster, in the depths of the ocean.

Eurus Holmes didn't react. She simply stared.

In the water, a memory rippled; a sob, belonging to Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes.

The pirate flinched, and so did the monster, in perfect unison.

Was the monster the only being capable of seeing inside the pirate's mind? Did she see The Grand's Collapse? Molly's body blissfully against his?

Biting back fear, the pirate dropped to his knees, procuring his sword from it's helm. Cheek clenching, he stood to arms.

The violin rested against his jaw, a bow presented to the skies. His eyes begged to close, yet he feared tearing them away. With a deep breath of a maestro in front of an orchestra, he summoned control of his soul, and went into battle.

If Eurus communicated easily though music, if she had used music to trigger his memories, then he could do the same. So, he went back, to that day in the theatre, and provided her a musical monologue of his own. One, which would be a warning, to her pending execution.

He played the final prayer of Maria Stuarda, from Donizetti's opera. The song that had been sang, when Sherlock had realised his sister was a murderer. Her execution nearing with every pulse of the bar.

The music soared, it sobbed, it sighed.

The poetry sang through the strings, through his heart. Just like Eurus' song predicted Molly's fate, this one predicted hers.

He played the prayer for her execution.

Sherlock didn't know when she understood. Honestly, he never would. Yet as the notes soared, he saw a shift in those empty eyes.

 _Are you going to kill me, brother mine?_

Sherlock's arm dropped. The force of the women who changed his life: Mary, Irene Adler, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Viola all watched him from the wings, communicating without words to the woman who'd changed him most of all.

"Eurus," He called deftly quiet, bile in his throat, "…I need you to play for your life."

In Eurus' peripheral, the door slid open. Three figures stood, darkened in the gap between downlights.

 _Mummy, Daddy, and Big Brother. They were once young. Now they are old. They were once welcoming. Now they are afraid._

Violet Holmes burst into tears.

"My god," Horace Holmes whispered, "Look what they've done to you, sweet girl."

His hand reached out and grasped his wife's, and Eurus' head tilted with interest.

"This isn't your fault," Violet stated, voice shaking, "She's been _caged._ How can you not go mad within these walls?"

Mycroft remained impossibly still, a block of ice. His expression was so distant he was hardly present. Eurus understood… Her execution was his choice.

To live, she had to move him.

Sherlock suddenly stirred, turning to his family. "If you would please sit."

Silently, the Holmes' moved to sit by one of the walls. An audience to a performance.

Sherlock swallowed, forcing back a tirade of fear, and raised his violin to his jaw once more. Eurus observed him, then blankly went, and collected her own. Reaching her previous position, she raised it into place.

In Violet Holmes' mind, she saw two little children, unruly curls and plaits, playing nursery rhymes before tea time.

Holding his breath, Sherlock struck down on the instrument. The sound raising gently, a question.

Eurus, unblinking, replicated the sound, yet it descended and twirled into the abyss.

Sherlock responded in earnest. A slow phrase with a jarring flourish.

An unpleasant grating on the strings cried out in response.

The detective narrowed his eyes, and the question came again.

Horace Holmes glanced towards his son. "…Mycroft, what are they doing?"

"Talking," Mycroft bit, "He's interrogating her."

Indeed, they talked without words. Monster and pirate, in a language of her own. Sherlock characterised his family members with gesture and phrases she easily understood. Mycroft's melody even and crisp, Molly's swirling, Viola's with a cadence reminiscent of Puccini. Eurus personified Moriarty with a sharp double stop, her imprisonment with one held note, Redbeard with a nursery rhyme, freedom with a flutter on the finest string.

Within minutes, music was soaring. Melodies connected, ornamentations decorated character motifs and a new song was born. Pirate and monster became the artists of a symphony.

Mycroft watched, stunned. Burning anxiety squeezed his synapses tightly until they verged on overload. Suddenly, a hand landed on his leg, and he flinched. But it was his mother, staring ahead, offering consolation.

Sherlock moved as the story pulsated through his veins. Eurus begged for freedom, for human touch. It was painful. Yet it was beautiful. Her music never eclipsed with a cadence fitting for an ending. No, it always expanded into further abundance of colour and life. It was a plea. She was begging for her life.

How could a monster portray such beauty? How could they beg, when they couldn't differentiate between laughing and screams?

Sherlock began to sweat, his eyes swelling with tears for the tortured soul in the cage.

Perhaps, she was manipulating them. Her music, a hypnosis into her bidding… And yet, her music brought images of a little girl into the forefront of his mind. A girl, teaching him how to read music. A girl, he called little sister.

Sherlock's music climbed higher and higher until it tipped in the very sun itself. Then it collapsed, down and down, jarring and encompassing. The Grands' fall became the story he told. The violin sang Viola's cries, Molly's near demise, his own rejection of his own life-

His bow fell from the bridge. Images past and present spun viciously in the corners of his vision. He felt dizzy. He felt sick. Briefly, he swayed.

Suddenly, Molly was at his side, voice hushed against his ear _. "Trust your instinct, trust your heart. Don't be afraid… No matter what happens, you are still Sherlock Holmes. An Eastern storm won't change that."_ Gently, a small hand gripped his bicep.

"That's enough."

Sherlock jolted in shock. Where Molly's smooth hand had landed, it was now his father's.

Eurus stilled, instrument coming to rest at her side.

"Well?" Violet questioned after a moment, "Sherlock, what is it? What has she said?"

The consulting detective trembled, washed upon the beach with sand in his hair. "…Moriarty used her. Eurus' understanding of Molly, Viola, us… Were his, not hers. He suggested a game only a mind as powerful as hers could implement. He knew he was going to die… He needed a weapon powerful enough to enact his death wishes. Eurus doesn't understand the difference between games and torture. So, she released Matteo from prison. She brought Viola to England. She believed we'd enjoy the game… Her music _was_ a warning."

"…And you believe this?"

"…I don't know."

The world descended into thick silence.

Suddenly, Mycroft moved.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Every detail imprinted on Sherlock's mind in blistering condition. Ones he'd remember until his dying day.

His brother's hands left his knees. He stood, bones creaking, face contorting in an aged wince. Every artifice of his physical self-seemed pained. Slowly, he reached an upright stance, face marble-like, yet the smooth surface was breaking. An umbrella lay abandoned.

Then, he made one step, eyes trained on the floor, making sure he didn't fall.

Sherlock raised a hand onto his father's shoulder, an instruction not to intervene.

A polished shoe moved again, and again, and again until his eyes saw the gentle confinement of glass in front of his toes.

He remained still for an impossibly long time.

Eurus met him at the other side of the glass. Blue eyes were awash with interest, or ware, or admiration- Sherlock would never truly decipher the realms of those orbs.

Then, without raising his head, a suit covered hand raised. It protruded its sleeve, and a deep purple scar from where he'd been bound was exposed on his wrist. Trembling, it landed on the glass partition, in his eye line.

Sherlock forgot how to breathe.

"Eurus," He began, voice melting ice, eyes still downwards, "…What did I ever do, to deserve this vivisection? I protected you."

No response.

"The game wasn't funny." His hand gripped on the glass, "Sisters don't bring buildings down on their brothers. Sisters don't tie them in chains. Sisters don't stab the people they love."

Nothing.

"…Why, should I keep you breathing? _Tell me!"_

Sherlock started, "Mycroft-"

"Euthanasia is a _mercy_. I should leave you to starve."

Eurus' cheek twitched, a motion both brothers recognised. It was bewitching. Dangerous.

"You… You don't deserve compassion. You don't deserve protection. You don't deserve sanity."

Her head tilted.

"Give me a reason to keep you alive, sister mine. Give me a reason to believe you won't come near us again. I-I can't exist within the East wind anymore." His head sagged, a racked choke emitting from his throat, "… _Please."_

Then, the monster stirred. Life breathed into her white cloth, her midnight hair, her eyes of sky. A pale hand lifted, and travelled, landing on the other side of the glass, against her brothers.

Violet Holmes sobbed.

For a long moment, steel scrutinised madness.

Then, Mycroft broke. Ice melted into water. A sob ripped through a shell, followed by another, and another. His head landed against the glass, and Eurus mirrored the motion.

Her eyes closed.

Mycroft's legs caved, and with a cry, he fell to his knees.

Eurus followed, in complete unison.

Sherlock watched his brother, the ice man, turn into the ocean that became himself.

"I can't do it," He gasped, "I can't- I _can't do it-_ God- _I'm sorry_ -"

Suddenly, Sherlock moved, dropping by his brother's side. His arms grasped him from behind, and Mycroft clung onto them, drowning within the weight of responsibility he had held for decades. Sherlock uttered words of comfort he wouldn't remember. He kissed his brother's hair, pulling him away from the glass.

"You don't have to." Sherlock stated, "Mycroft- You don't have to. Eurus isn't your burden anymore. It's alright- We do not have to commit ourselves to her murder."

Eurus simply stared, eyes beacons into their souls.

"Sherlock I've _failed-"_

"No," The detective snapped, holding him close, "No- Mycroft, it is time you distributed the weight on your shoulders. We can manage Eurus, together. This isn't your battle anymore."

" _I tried-"_

"I know, brother mine. I know."

* * *

 **Two Days Later**

"How did Sherlock and Mycroft to agree to this? This… This _socialising,_ it's hardly them is it?"

Molly giggled, "Definitely not. Their parents will have guilted them into it, one hundred percent."

A wicked gleam shone in John's eye, "Can see it now," He cleared his throat, expostulating in a middle-class accent, "You boys almost tore the fabric of this very nation apart! The very least you can do is serve wine and scones on a Thursday afternoon!"

Molly laughed heartily. "It's a surprise they haven't incited war."

"You're one of them now Molly. Part of the madness."

"You've been part of it for years."

"Very true." Agreed John with a grin.

The sky was blue with a smattering of grey as Doctor and Pathologist approached the house of Mycroft Holmes. The house, like the man, was set up like a fortress. As John watched the house emerge on the horizon, Rosie secured in his arms, he couldn't help but reflect on the circumstances that had brought them here.

Weeks ago, Sherlock had dragged John here in the middle of the night. He was frenzied, excitement and mystery teeming through his every fibre. He had a sister, and he sought information like a spark to a flame. The case was spurning its first roots into the soil.

Now, the journey stood as a mighty oak, branches wide and visible to the world on high. For all the world knew of it. Tears had been cried, revelations made, hearts united and broken. Yet, Mycroft's home still stood strong.

By his side, Molly walked with a light smile. Excitement emanated off her, to be reunited with the man who loved her. _Sherlock Holmes in love, who would ever have expected it?_

The Holmes' had decided to hold a gathering as a predecessor to Viola's return to Italy. A sociable gathering- as much as one with the Holmes' could be deemed as one. Viola would be able to truly spend time with her grandparents, her newfound family, before returning to the country that was as much to her as England was to Sherlock.

As they reached the door, Molly gave John a nervous smile and pressed upon the doorbell. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Her whole body ached to see Sherlock, to check he was alright, to move on in their experiment finding their normal.

Two days ago, Molly had been sat awake in the early hours, unable to rest, when her phone had lit up. It was the first message Sherlock had sent her since leaving her bedside.

 **The East wind lives.**

 **SH**

Shocked, relieved, and unnerved all at once, she had fired back a response asking when he'd be home.

 **When Mycroft is ready.**

 **SH**

Her heart had ached with sympathy. Molly had known Mycroft was suffering from the trauma of this case, more than the others. For the man who's refined control would marvel the Queen herself, she had seen him quiver under the fear of the monster who wouldn't be contained. Thank God Sherlock had been there, to stop him making the darkest mistake of his life.

After a short time, the front door unbolted from its hinges.

"My dears!" Violet Holmes exclaimed excitedly, ushering them inside, "Oh, it's so good to see you!"

Molly blushed as warm hands landed on her shoulders and a kiss pressed on her cheek. Violet efficiently replicated the same motion on John, and then Rosie.

"It's so good to see you both, after all this madness. Molly, how's your recovery going? We were so worried-"

"Oh, I'm fine. Getting there."

"Well, I'm just so happy you're both here," From a kind smile, a sense of distance appeared in blue eyes, "It means a lot. It's time we put this mess behind us and move forward as a family, hm?"

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked lightly, not noticing the atmosphere shift.

Violet widened her smile, "The kitchen. Never seen a grown man take so long preparing wine glasses. Feel free to go on through."

"Cheers. Rosie, shall we go see Uncle Sherlock?"

Rosie's disinterested face lit up. "'Lock! 'Lock!"

"Come on then!"

A child's excitable call reverberated through the dark wood hall as John led her away.

Molly watched them idly, Violet Holmes by her side.

Looking ahead, the older lady suddenly spoke, soft, contrite, "Molly… I know what you did for my boys. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have had the chance to see my daughter… I don't know how to thank you."

Surprised, Molly's head turned.

"I'm so proud that he's found the capability to accept love on his own terms, with you."

Brown eyes widened, "He told you?"

"No," She admitted with a chuckle, "But I know my son. The past days he's stood in unchartered waters, yet never more grounded. Something shifted in him. It wasn't there when he met Viola… No, it was only now, after this. A few deductions later left me with this conclusion. Thank you for confirming it for me."

Molly shook her head, and opened her mouth to speak-

" _Mycroft! For the last time- It's just glass! Only a narcissist cares about their alignment and angles-"_

" _That's a gin glass, Sherlock! Vernaccia 2004 white wine does not belong in gin glasses!"_

"That's my cue." Violet announced with a smirk, before setting off, the lioness of the Holmes pride.

After a moment processing her words, Molly followed. Emerging at the kitchen, she leaned on the doorway, watching the most unique scene play out in front of her. Violet Holmes was scolding Sherlock and Mycroft, one wielding four gin glasses in a large palm, the other pouting in a waistcoat. Molly's heart lifted as she saw a renewed manner on the politician's body. Whatever had happened those last few days, had gone some way to healing him. Nearby, Horace stirred a pot, seemingly mute to the discretion. John was bouncing baby in his arms, finding the whole ordeal amusing. By his side, to Molly's surprise, was Viola.

Dressed in a loose blue skater dress, a shade deeper than her eyes, she watched the Holmes' with an observant countenance. The corner of her mouth pulled up into a slight smirk. Molly was in awe. It was if she had always been a missing piece of the Holmes painting. Colours where there had once been a blank canvas. This young woman, a thousand miles from home, had been through so much. The fact she could stand here now, smiling, _surviving,_ was a true testament to who Viola Seraphina was.

Not sure if Sherlock had noticed her- He was now ranting about how a spoon was multipurpose, yet a gin glass couldn't be- She slipped over to Viola's side.

"Hi."

"Are they always this," Viola thought for a moment, "Er- _drammatica?"_

"Pretty sure," Molly shrugged, "Where's your family?"

"I told them they could sight-see. I put them through enough," A light grin traced her features, "They should at least get a good photo from here."

"Hey- Have you told Sherlock yet?"

Viola watched the bizarre man she called _Papa_ throw his arms open with an English word she didn't understand, and smirked. "No."

"Well, we should… Shouldn't we?"

"Papa?" Viola called.

Instantly, sharp eyes landed on his daughter. Briefly, they flicked to Molly, but centred back without hesitation.

"Papa… I've been given a job."

For a split second, he froze, a brow raised in what she imagined was surprise. "A job in your field, I presume."

"The University are very happy with my research. They want me on their team that's in Matera. They said, er- _field work?_ Lots of bones, anyway," Viola folded her hands together, "It means… It means I am going home, for a while, but I'm still attached here. It means I have work in London."

There was a brief silence of awe.

John shook his head in disbelief, "Viola… That's fantastic! How the hell did you manage to get a job like that with just an undergrad degree?"

Viola spoke, eyes trained purely on her Papa, "It appears people listen to your opinions on the mysterious things in the world… When you're a Holmes."

Viola bit her lip, biding for a reaction from Sherlock, but he physically seemed numb. Subtility was a natural trait of the Holmes', she had come to realise, and was starting to recognise how to spot it. In that silence, where stillness ran riot, only Mycroft Holmes shifted. He inhaled, steel eyes watching her with a sense of pride.

… _It was Mycroft._

Bewildered, she hardly saw Sherlock stepping towards her. But when she did, she was floored by the joy in his expression.

John made a comment about helping with cutlery, and immediately the shocked silence dissipated. Everyone began to help with what was needed, moving around the Detective and his daughter.

"Hardly surprising, for a mind as advanced as yourself."

"… _Thanks?"_

"No," Inwardly, he seemed to correct himself, "What I intend to say is… I'm proud of you."

Sherlock blinked, then smiled- a rare, raw, warm smile.

Viola grinned back. A split second later, Horace Holmes called her over and she walked away.

"Hi."

The Detective turned at the new voice. Beside him, stood Molly Hooper. Her brown eyes were wide, warm but careful.

The ocean was aching at a far tide, craving the warmth of the earth.

"Sherlock, be a dear and put these in the back, will you?"

Sherlock blinked out of his reverie, blinking at his mother who was holding two baskets full of frightful looking biscuits to him.

"Of course. Molly, can you fetch the other?"

"Yep." She replied smoothly, retrieving the other.

"After you." Sherlock told Molly, gesturing down a long corridor.

With sophisticated ease, they headed off.

John was stilled, watching them with a perplexed expression. "Huh, chivalry isn't dead."

Mycroft manifested at the Doctor's side. "Chivalry with goldfishes, Doctor Watson. It's a remarkably abhorrent feat."

"They'll be happy though, won't they?"

"Yes…" Mycroft's upper lip twisted, "Sherlock Holmes… _Happy._ I never thought such an adjective would personify my little brother."

"They're watching us walk away," Sherlock commented dryly, "Is this spectacle a common occurrence when observing individuals in a monogamous relationship?"

They turned a corner.

"No, but then again, it's _you._ I imagine it's more surprising then-"

Suddenly, Molly was pressed against a wall. Lips were against hers, claiming her. A small yelp of surprise sounded before she melted in Sherlock's arms.

Molly reached up and raked her small hands into his hair, receiving a quiet groan in response. Molly smirked against his lips. She'd missed him, and only now did she forcefully feel how much. She craved his caresses like a musician craved sweet cadences.

Sherlock drank in the feeling of her. The powerful shot of white noise resonating through his entire body. He needed this. Where life had removed itself from routine- This indulgence, this pure, _human_ feeling was the crime scene of his attention. Without thought- A beguiling concept for himself, admittedly- the palm on her hip divulged the path underneath her blouse and graced upon the soft skin there. Ocean mist sparkled in sunlight.

"Sherlock-" Molly gasped, as his head dipped to kiss the side of her neck, " _Sherlock-"_

"It appears I marked you," He purred, "The next time you want to cover up some bruising, you need to use a more sufficient primer."

A palm landed on his chest and pushed him backwards. Blue eyes trained on her hungrily, desire swept, and it made her weak at the knees.

His lips contorted in a frown, "Should I not comment on your cosmetic capabilities?"

"What- No," She chuckled, cupping his cheek, "What was that for?"

"I'm saying hello. We have had a prolonged absence from each other." A brow raised, "Not good?"

"Definitely good- Absolutely fine, actually."

Sherlock grinned, and moved into her personal space once more-

"Hang on, _Sherlock-"_ Molly pushed him back again, and he had the audacity to look like a spoiled child denied confectionary. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, "Am _I_ alright?"

"Yes… Are you alright? Is Eurus-"

"Still alive, as I told you."

"What… What happened?"

"A lot of things I'd rather not relive. But, the matter remains as such. Eurus is going to live. We are all now taking responsibility for her care and protection. This means, on occasion, I will have to visit Sherrinford to offer entertainment," He paused, "A small price to pay, for keeping secure."

Softly, Molly took his hand, "…And is that okay with you?"

"If it eases my brother's burden, then it is a fate I will accept." Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her searching expression, "Mycroft has been through quite the ordeal... It's why I didn't come back sooner. But, I think, releasing his demons has gone some way in helping him heal. A start, at least."

"I'm glad." She agreed gently. "Listen… I've been thinking, about Wiggins."

Sherlock tensed, "What about him?"

"Well… You know I went with Viola, for her research meeting at the Royal School? I knew the team meeting with her and wanted to help her prepare."

"An obvious deduction," Sherlock shrugged, "But do continue."

"Well," Molly's hands slowly traced down to his waist, "I saw her, often turn from looking sharp to completely lost, whilst we travelled down. I know she is still navigating the repercussions of Matteo's death and The Grand's fall; however, this was different… It was like longing. Eventually, I realised there was a strict pattern to the reaction."

"Which was?"

"It was whenever her eyes found the homeless. I'm certain, she's still looking for Wiggins amongst crowds, on street corners…"

Sherlock's cheek clenched. "You _know_ he doesn't wish to see her. He's refused…" His voice dropped to deathly quiet, "Regardless, Viola still doesn't know the truth. This is necessary, to prevent her further heartache. So, I ask, what is your point?"

Molly held his intelligent gaze for a moment and captured his lips once more. The motion was a plea for understanding. "Tell Wiggins that Viola is leaving for Italy tomorrow. Give him the chance to say goodbye, if he wishes to."

"I sincerely doubt he will."

"Sherlock, he loves her." Molly sighed, "I know he's intent not to act upon anything, but… Maybe saying goodbye will help them both."

Sherlock let out a breath, resting his head against hers. "I do hate it when your ability for empathy outweighs my logical understanding."

"You'll be grateful for it, in the long term."

"I'll hold you to that, Doctor Hooper."

With an agreement between them, a genuine smile was shared. For Sherlock, the gesture was small. For Molly, all-encompassing. But the sincerity was matched. Softly, Sherlock touched his lips against hers, and revelled in everything that was her.

"Brother mine, we have a situation that needs resolving with the most _utmost_ importance."

With a groan, Sherlock pushed away from Molly. Mycroft was stood a few feet away, looking slightly unimpressed. Sherlock grinned inwardly. His brother was _horrified._

"Greetings, Mycroft."

The politician glanced between Sherlock and Molly with a cutting glare. "As if this social gathering wasn't already detestable enough with the infant who intends on grabbing every object within a metre radius, small talk, and this- _physical_ activity… Our mother has decided to seize the opportunity to showcase your daughter our _childhood_ photographs."

"…Oh dear _God_."

"My thoughts exactly."

"This treachery can not continue!" Sherlock announced, before charging down the hall, with the stealth of a man on the path of a criminal, nearly knocking Mycroft over in the process.

For a long moment, Molly stared.

Then, she threw her head back, and burst out laughing.

* * *

It was truly bizarre, Viola thought, how London hardly slept. The sky was light darkness, glowing with air pollution where it should have been dusted with stars. On the street below the occasional person drifted by, sometimes swaying in a drunken foray, sometimes tiredly gripping to the rucksacks after staying late at their offices. Taxis danced their rehearsed routines around the bends, again and again. An occasional red bus joined it, carrying the lowly and weary.

Viola swallowed back a sigh. Her temple gently against the cool glass.

The figure had gone.

Soon, someone else would take their place. Another nondescript face, calling out to the hearts of the city.

Tomorrow, she would be gone from this strange world. From the grey into the green. A new career awaited her, a new start. Whilst she thought relief would have been prevalent, instead she felt loss.

Going home meant regaining her life but losing this one.

Leaving Matteo to succumb to the dust of foreign soil.

Sherlock Holmes and his remarkably insane family.

Leaving Billy.

Despite family in adjacent rooms, despite the whole world looking at her, she felt painfully lonely.

A long figure emerged under a streetlamp, dusted white under a bus stops fluorescent calling beams. Viola pondered over where they were headed-

Then they looked up.

Directly at her.

And didn't stop.

Viola stilled, mind calling her consciousness to full awareness. The figure was a woman in a coat three sizes too big. Old, Eastern, with piercing green eyes. …The lady who had smiled at her, three days before.

Viola turned away-

The woman shot a hand out.

 _Stop._

A withered had emerged from a long sleeve, a singular finger extended. And it beckoned.

Viola forgot how to breathe. Her own palm turned around and gestured to herself in question.

The woman nodded.

The lady lifted a small bag that laid at her feet.

It was a sleeping bag.

It was Billy's.

Suddenly, she was moving. Expertly, she threw on the nearest clothes. An oversized hoodie pulled over her pyjama top. Jeans dragged up her long legs. Converse over bare feet. Silently, she pushed her hotel key card in a pocket, and slipped silently out of the door. Her heart thrummed in her chest. As she slipped down the corridor deftly, she saw every camera following her. But she didn't care.

 _He wants to see me. He wants to say goodbye._

Emerging down a staircase, she slipped past the night-time receptionist and into the night.

"Where is Wiggins?" Viola asked, albeit a touch desperately, on the path of the woman across the road.

The lady reached into a pocket and protruded a piece of paper bearing a lopsided scrawl.

 _Swiss Cottage._

"Who- Swiss… What is that?"

"Tube stop, lass. 'E says to meet you there."

Viola nodded numbly, her mind frantically trying to work out to get there without means-

"Oh," The woman chuckled, reaching into her pocket once more, "There you go."

In her small wearied hand was a bright blue pocket of hope: An oyster card.

Viola took it appreciatively. She was _so grateful._ "Thank you, thank you-"

"No problem, love. Off you go."

Pressing the small card to her chest, Viola set off into the night. The sight of the London Underground Station was a lighthouse. Viola dashed down the steps with a grace she hadn't possessed in days. She was smiling. She didn't notice. After scrambling to make sense of the maps from the multiple lines connected to Bond Street station, she finally found her tube.

 _Jubilee Line – Northbound._

Moments later she was hopping into a deserted carriage. Her stomach danced a routine too complicated for her feet as it pulled away from the station. The last time she had been on a tube, she had been running away from Matteo. Frightened for her life. Now she was a free woman. The press didn't know she was here. _Sherlock_ didn't know she was here.

Billy wanted to see her. He wanted to say goodbye.

The tube pulled into the station, and she was out like a shot. Desperately her legs pulled her up the escalators, to the entrance, into the darkness.

There was no one there.

Cold air drifted through her clothes and bit her skin.

Frantically, she searched around her. There was nothing except posh houses, a Performing Arts School, and posher cars. Her breath made small patterns in front of her face. "Billy," She whispered, fear encroaching her personal space, "Wiggins… Are you here?"

"Viola?"

" _Merda!"_ She hissed, jolting from her skin.

Turning on her heel, she was met with the face of a stranger. A tall black man, with a devastatingly friendly face.

"Who… Who are-"

"Wiggin's has asked me to take you to him," He smiled, lit by a streetlamp in a warm hue, "Is that alright, ma'am?"

Warily, Viola scanned the man, but nodded. Together, they ascended into the streets of London. Neither spoke another word. Her mind was whirlwind, creating answers and thesis's rapidly.

Turning down a street of painfully white homes, Viola could only admire them in awe. They looked pristine in the night. Here, unlike Baker Street, the city truly did sleep. Not a single car travelled past. Suddenly, the man gestured them down a houses' drive, and Viola stopped dead. This didn't make sense, why would-

The man smirked wistfully and gestured to a post forced within some grass.

' _FOR SALE'_

Viola nodded.

Like an owl in the night, the man silently travelled up the steps and laid his hand on a metal Victorian door handle. The door itself was ajar. Viola's heart leapt to her throat.

"Your last night here, ma'am. Make it count." The man told her in a warm baritone. With a small shrug that was practically a salute, he descended the steps.

Viola stared at the door for a moment, beside with a plethora of emotions and adrenaline, and forced herself to falsify a calm demeanour. Billy was her friend. She had to say goodbye. This was all this was. Summoning a slow breath, she pushed open the door, and it groaned against its hinges. Her arms trembled as she descended into the darkness. The space was big but deserted. The only light that reached the room was the pollution from the skies.

Viola hardly breathed, it felt wrong somehow.

The floor creaked with every step she took. Whilst she urged to call his name, no sound fell.

Reaching a doorway, she narrowed around a corner into what appeared to be an almost-cleared living room.

Settees still sat by the sides, covered in soft sheets, yet the fire was clear of coal, the shelves clear of books. On a withered coffee table, lay a vintage lamp breathing yellow into the black.

In the centre of the room, stood Billy Wiggins.

He was dressed in worn trousers and a dark cotton t-shirt. Socks covered his feet, marred in small holes. His dark blue eyes were wide, like a gazelle on the prairie. He skimmed her, once, twice- three times, and she knew he was deducing her. Viola merely stood on the edge of the cliff face, waiting for him to catch her fall. God, she'd missed him.

Wiggin's scanned her one final time, before resolutely pushing his spine straighter. A small, anxious smile tugged on the edge of his lips. "'Ello, Missus 'Olmes."

Viola's lip trembled, a wide smile spreading across her entire face, warming her eyes and her soul.

Viola had expected to respond in earnest. She had expected to question him on his absence. She had even expected tears. But not this.

Her legs propelled her across the room, a swan extending its wings over water. Her hands threw around his neck, and her lips crashed against his.

There was no thought. Nothing. Suddenly she became fire expelling light across the darkened street. She was a phoenix taken wing, the swan forgotten. Wiggins sagged against her, and she vaguely heard him chant her name. Fiercely, she backed him onto the wall. Her hands were on his jaw, in his hair-

Wiggin's pulled her flush against him with a word she didn't care to translate.

Determination skyrocketing, deft hands found his shift and hiked it over his head. Viola's instinct told her to slow down, that this wasn't fair, that it may be too much for him, but her heart was soaring, and she couldn't retrace her way back to orbit.

She needed this.

Viola pulled her lips away, smirking at the dissatisfied sound that escaped him. Viola pressed her lips to his neck, holding him to her mercy and she didn't care. Viola's body ached for closeness, to humanity, for the one person she trusted in the urban jungle.

When his hands circled behind her, desperate to free her of cotton constraints, she grinned. Quickly, she lifted hoodie and top over her shoulders. The moment their skin met, she was gone.

"Viola-"

Wiggins grasped her waist and eased her back slightly. Viola's ministrations didn't stop. However, lost, focus deliberating every moment, his eyes dropped to admire her. On the side of her rib cage, a small patch was slightly discoloured. Almost healed, but still there.

 _The one she had sustained, before being thrust into his world._

Five discoloured indentations of stood on one upper arm, more on the same wrist.

 _Where Matteo had grabbed her, dragging her on stage. -Focus, Billy!_

Feeling him writhe against her, Viola searched for his free hand and grasped it in her own.

 _Billy had always trembled under pressure. His ability to hold a steady hand impossible. Yet, the gun felt weightless, when trained against Matteo Conti. Viola was dancing in his embrace, effortless and magnificent, yet tears shone on her cheeks. Matteo had the eyes of a beast, waiting to devour pray. The gun raised, steady, in his palm. Calm eclipsed his soul, as the gun was trained. It was the most sickening sensation he had ever felt in his life. The screaming voices, the itching for attention, the fear disappeared. All that was left, in the darkness, was Matteo Conti._

" _Vatican Cameos!"_

 _BANG._

 _No no no no-_

Wiggins pushed her away. Hard.

Cold air eclipsed the space around Viola violently. She stumbled. Blue eyes catching with betrayal and hurt.

Wiggin's leaned against the wall for support, right hand cradled in his left with a pained expression. He daren't look at her. For a man who didn't boast a trimmed appearance on the best of days, he still looked flustered. Shadows covered his features in the night.

"…You are hurt?" Viola gasped, and reached outwards-

"Don't touch me," Wiggins hissed, arm shooting out in front of her, " _Don't."_

" _Billy-"_

"What the 'ell was that, Viola?" Suddenly his eyes were on her, pinning her. He was angry. He was heartbroken.

"… _Dio,_ Billy, I-"

"Piss off!" Suddenly, he pushed off the wall, barged past her, and threw himself onto the pale settee. His face thrust into his hands.

Viola followed him with an electrified stare, desperately trying to collect her thoughts and breath. Her whole nervous system floundered in disarray. Several times, her mouth dropped to speak, but the only words that formed were Italian- The translator in her brain had simply short-circuited.

Wiggin's curled around himself. It was a long time before he spoke. "Are you tryin' to make this 'arder? Goddammit Viola this _isn't fair."_

"Fair?" Viola echoed, sense ebbing its way back into sensation, " _Fair?_ You have been missing! You left me-"

"You were grievin'-"

"I need my _friend."_ She insisted, "You were _fine_ in the hospital. _We were fine._ I needed you-"

"No, Viola. You needed your family." He flicked his head up to look at her, aghast, "You don't need some junkie lingerin' around."

"Billy… Please."

"Did snoggin' me make you feel better?" Wiggins questioned rapidly, "Did it make your grief disappear? I'm not 'ere for that shit, Viola. You wanted to say bye. That's what I'm doing."

A hot tear escaped her eyes, scorching her cheek, "How are you so- So _crudele?"_

"You should keep away from me, Missus 'Olmes." His jaw clenched, his hands grasping in hateful fists, "I thought I could 'elp you reocver, but I bloody well couldn't-"

"I forgive you."

"You shouldn't-"

"No- _Billy,"_ Viola insisted, brows slightly drawn in empathy, suddenly weighted by an invisible magnitude, _"I forgive you."_

Wiggins jaw dropped, his pupils blown wide against the darkness. Viola didn't _know_ \- Did she? The expression on her features was unreadable, an oil painting of swirling colours entwining with her heart.

Another tear fell, drifting from her face onto her chest. Suddenly, an insurmountable weight gripped her soul. Her jaw dropped, but no further words came.

 _Oh God,_ Wiggins' body plummeted into a pit in the earth, _she knows._

Suddenly, his mouth was dry, his hands flailing, his head screaming to run. Yet he couldn't move.

Viola nodded numbly, and took three steps forward, each one slower than the one before it. Standing in front of his feet, she reached out and grasped his cheek. A shuddered breath escaped his lips. Her hand was as pale as the moon covered in clouds.

"Billy… I forgive you."

"How… How-" His eyes fell closed, leaning into her palm. He felt faint.

Viola let out a shaky breath, her voice was scarcely a whisper, "The way you looked when you saw me in hospital, the way you said sorry… I- I tried not to imagine it. I pushed the feeling away… But then you went missing. Papa lied, e _veryone_ lied. But it didn't make sense when they didn't want to hurt me… I didn't understand." Her thumb wiped a tear from his eyes. He was shaking. "I tried to be a detective, but I couldn't. …I gave up. But then, I heard Papa telling my step-papa the truth. Sherlock… Doesn't know, that I know. I don't want him, to feel bad for protecting me."

"Viola, I can't…"

"Matteo taunted you, after I kissed you. Your attention illness causes your senses to be bigger in crowd spaces," Viola sighed, holding the stiff man steady, "I cause this… I'm sorry."

Suddenly, he pushed her back, "Why the 'ell are you apologisin' to me?"

Viola dipped to her knees, hands resting on his own. He flinched.

"I did this. You're a good man, Billy-"

"No-"

" _You are."_

Wiggin's blinked away acidic tears, refusing to look into her eyes. Those eyes that would cause his hear to shatter like ice. He couldn't believe his ears. Viola Seraphina was an _impossible_ woman.

"…You should 'ate me."

A chocked sob escaped her throat, "…I know." Viola entwined her fingers with his limp ones, steadying them, "I don't understand why I don't."

A sad laugh formed on Wiggins' lips, "'Ow are you like this?"

Her brow knitted, her perceptive gaze analysing every word.

"…So bloody _magnificent._ So bloody empathetic. So bloody kind."

"I'm not-"

"I _promised_ Shezza I wouldn't go near you after what I did," He felt Viola pull away, "Not because 'e ordered me or anythin' like- because I was bloody guilty. 'E thought I'd relapse, and you know what? I bloody did too. But I've not… I've not touched a single bloody thing since I met you. Takin' drugs feels _wrong,_ with you in my life."

Viola bowed her head, soft curls escaping in front of her eyes. "You didn't tell me about drugs."

"Wasn't it obvious?"

Viola tensed, and silence followed. _Of course,_ Viola had noticed the jitters in his hands, the way his mood snapped, the symptoms of a controlled withdrawal. Despite his high tolerance, it had still been obvious. But she had ignored it. She hadn't wanted to confront it, not when she needed his help and support more than anything.

Holding her breath, she gently turned his arms over. Small, practise track marks covered the inside of his arms. Marks, so like her mammas. As her heart broke, she wondered if there were anymore. Judging by the precision and amount, she imagined there would be. Her eyes fell closed, at the immensity of Billy. This tormented soul, who had prevailed for her, yet was punished for it.

"…You have not had anymore?"

"Since meetin' you? No." Despairingly, his head leaned on his shoulder, "I want to… I bloody do. I want to switch off my 'ead, the ants on me brain and just be able to sleep, without relivin' pullin' the trigger… 'Earing your grief racketing through my skull." His eyes clamped closed, the pain too much to bear.

Viola's heat shattered.

"Billy," She whispered, encouraging him to open his eyes, "Please… Please don't give into them. You're too _amazing_ for that."

Slowly, his eyes opened, bloodshot and wide. When they met hers, he audibly whimpered.

"I-I killed the man you loved," He gasped, dejected, "I'm a monster and I don't deserve sobriety-"

"No." Viola grasped his cheek, steadying him to look upon her, "No… You're beautiful. You saved me."

Wiggins searched her frantically, verging between flight or fight. His attention was being pulled forty places all at once, it was dizzying, painful. The only thing that steadied him was her eyes, and they were the most terrifying place to gaze.

"…Please don't go." He managed, in the most broken tone she had ever heard from him.

If words had the power to move matter, a valley would have split between them.

"Billy," Viola whimpered, brushing a crystalline tear from his stubbled cheek, "I'm sorry."

Anthropologist and Homeless man sat together, knowing tomorrow they would be parted. Matteo's death stood in between them, badgering both with guilt and pain. Whatever _this_ was, was not meant to last. A time bomb was held in the air above them, getting louder with every second.

Viola nudged herself closer, and her forehead brushed his. A panicked breath escaped him, and he braced her arms, yet couldn't push her away.

"V-Viola-"

"You don't need drugs to be you… Let me show you what you are worth."

They were a breadth apart, energy surrounding them vibrantly.

"Viola- I _can't._ Shezza trusts me not to-"

"Papa doesn't matter. Matteo doesn't matter… It's me and you. Tonight. Please… I love you."

Ever so gently, she pressed her lips against his. The movement was soft, chaste, loving.

Wiggins pulled away, forcing back a lump in his throat "Viola… You're breakin' my 'eart-"

"Our hearts are broken now. What is wrong one night, if it can save your life?" Viola's lips grazed his cheek, _"Che sembri un'opera d'arte."_

Wiggins shaking hand gently wound itself in her hair, and a lopsided smile ingrained into his features. "I 'ope that was a complement."

Viola snickered, "You'll never know."

For a single breadth more, they remained still. Seeds of doubt growing into rabid thorns around them. But the power in their gaze silenced their growth. Hearts pulled, and their lips met. Draped in blankets of darkness, laughter was spilled, tears were shed, and hearts thrummed rhythms into the silence.

The world was theirs, just that one night.

The Anthropologist and Homeless man.

* * *

The sun brushed the horizon, a warm yellow brushing the skies with purple, pink, and orange across London's skyline. A soft breeze permeated the air, whispering the starts of consciousness into millions, stirring dreams into sleeping minds.

In an empty house in Swiss Cottage, two lovers murmured their farewells.

Billy Wiggins kissed the woman he loved, wishing the sun had never had to rise. The future was now, and that was that.

Viola Seraphina, a woman who now completely embodied her name, parted them gently. Her body ached to stay a moment longer, yet it was not to be.

"Billy… I will be returned, you know. Will you wait?"

Wiggins smiled sadly, hand in her hair, "Who else would there be as bleedin' crazy as you?"

Viola giggled, heart in her throat. Totally eclipsed with love for the man with the slow joke grin. "Please… Just, be careful. Be happy."

"With you in my 'ead, I am a million men, Missus 'Olmes. Go show the world 'ow bloody amazin' Viola Seraphina is."

With a final kiss that blossomed their heart brighter than the sun, he let her go. "Go, before you make me cry again."

"I love you, Billy."

"…I love you, Viola Seraphina."

The morning air met her like a punch to the stomach. As the door closed behind her, Viola leaned against it. Her breath was coming in short gasps, her heart full and broken all at once.

When cohesion finally returned to her, Viola wiped her eyes and glanced down around her.

Her stomach dropped.

A black car waited in front of the house. The same type, that had whisked her around London for days. Of course, she'd been followed. Yet Viola found she didn't care. She didn't care if Sherlock knew if the world did. Billy had saved her life, and she loved him. What was regretful in that?

Brushing her hoodie straighter, she shakily stepped down the drive. The sun sparkling in her watery blue eyes.

Without looking, she slipped into the driver's seat.

"Take me back." She told the driver stiffly, biting back tears.

"Buongiorno, Viola Seraphina."

Viola startled, finally observing the figure in the seat across from her. …It was Mycroft.

Dressed in a smart suit, hands covered in leather gloves, he slipped the car into the ignition, and eased away from the road. Though she didn't know him well, she instinctively knew this- driving- Wasn't a common occurrence for him.

"…What are you doing here?" She asked in Italian.

"Escorting you back to your hotel, before your family realise you're missing."

"…I was fine going on my own."

"Need I remind you that you're still the centre of a worldwide story. If the press see you, you'd be accosted. If Sherlock found out you'd gone missing, he'd probably lose his sanity. Henceforth, this was the most efficient solution."

"Should I ask how you knew I was here?"

He simply raised a brow.

Viola's hands fidgeted lightly, trying to think of a question from the plethora.

Suddenly, Mycroft spoke. His voice was professional, but not judgemental. Perhaps, it was even kind.

"I've taken the liberty of scheduling you a Doctor's appointment when you're back in Italy. As much as Wiggins is a good man, he is a drug user, a needle user at that... There are risks. It is imperative to make sure you're clean."

Her eyes widened. She hadn't thought of that. For a moment, she felt violated. But… He was helping her, wasn't he? "…Thank you."

Mycroft's lips tightened, just a fraction. "Viola Seraphina, I wish to thank you, for saving me. Emotion is a foreign ideology I hardly relate to. Regardless… Your determination to save me, a man you don't know, is remarkable. You are a Holmes."

"I know it was you, you know... Who got me the appointment at the Royal School of Pathology."

Mycroft paused, "Very observant of you."

"Just...Thank you, really."

"I didn't get you the job, Viola, merely the appointment. Your intellect speaks for itself."

Warmth blossomed over her chest. She wanted to continue talk of thankfulness, but she knew it wasn't his speciality. Viola folded her arms, glancing up at the suit-clad man from her oversized hoodie and jeans. "Do you regret it? Keeping me a secret, for so many years?"

Mycroft's steely eyes watched the road carefully. "No. Considering the results over this, wherein my brother is happy, you've been given new opportunities… And I don't have to carry such dark burdens, I believe it had to happen like this."

"I think so, too." Viola thought for a moment, "Can I make a request?"

Mycroft nodded succinctly.

"Well, I did save your life… I risked everything for your preservation. If you're grateful, is it untoward of me to ask for something in return?"

Briefly, he shot a glance her way. He looked _impressed._

"I shall endeavour to provide your wishes. What is it you want?"

Viola smiled lightly, glancing out to London moving around her. Silver against rainbows. A soft determination settled on her chest. In a motion like her fathers, her hands steepled under her chin.

"I want you to save Billy Wiggins."

* * *

A monster danced in a puddle. He sang the songs of times gone by, he killed the monsters that threatened the oceans, he plundered the gold. The icy hand of the East wind had pulled him into the abyss, yet he had resurfaced in a distant world. Redbeard was surrounded by woodland, on a coast by a crystal ocean.

The little red pirate searched for Yellowbeard.

Years passed, yet Redbeard didn't age. He had become the Peter Pan of his own Neverland. One day, the same as any other, Redbeard walked through the woodland, looking out at the beach ahead.

In the distance stood a strange man, and a strange woman.

The man was tall, strong, sharp, wearing a Belstaff coat as a cape. The woman's auburn hair was blowing in the wind. A lab coat billowed around her. They were superheroes.

Redbeard edged through the trees, wanting to get a closer look at these strange beings.

The man wound the woman into his arms, and they began to waltz.

After spinning her under his arm, the strange man kissed her soundly. In response, the ocean crashed joyfully, the trees rustled. Redbeard gasped in shock, had gripping his wooden sword.

When they parted, something changed. A keen mystery gripped the strange man, and as if by magic, a grand sword appeared in his hand. It was long, gold-encrusted, refined steel. A sabre sword, one which had once owned to Napoleon Bonaparte.

Redbeard was frozen in his wellingtons.

Slowly, the strange man left the pretty woman and stepped across the beach. He left the sand and entered the woodland.

The men narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the boy's tiny wooden sword.

"Who- Who are you?"

The man crouched, and extended his arms to the boy, offering the golden sword.

"The Master of the Seas needs the finest weapon," He told him smartly, "This is for you… Redbeard."

The little boy stared, perplexed. Nervously, he reached out and grasped the handle. The gold reflected glittering rays on his young features.

When he looked up, the man and woman had gone.

" _Sherlock?"_

Blue eyes snapped open. Immediately, Sherlock's eyes landed on Molly. She was watching him with a light grin. "You okay? We lost you for a moment then."

His hands tapped together, twice. "I was merely visiting a friend."

"In your mind palace?"

A brow raised in confirmation.

Molly, slightly confused, debated asking questions, but let it drop. "Sure you're going to be alright?"

"Viola is going home, on an opportunity that could change her life. …As a parent, isn't happiness the main element of which I wish success?"

"Of course," Molly breathed.

"And I'm itching for a good murder." Sherlock informed her suddenly. "Something simple. A nice homicide. I've been starved for _weeks_."

"Spoken like a true sociopath."

Sherlock grinned at her, a wolfish smile. He made simple work of the door in front of them, and together, detective and pathologist stepped out onto the runway.

The same runway, where Sherlock had almost been sentenced on a death mission, once before. A plane now stood, in the same spot. Yet, it wasn't an aircraft that signified an ending. Rather, it signified a new beginning.

John emerged by his side, joined by Mrs Hudson, and Rosie in a pram.

"You ready, mate?"

Sherlock glanced at him once, and then again. "You've been texting all night."

John sighed, "Saw it that easy, did you?" Sherlock's jaw dropped, "No- Don't explain it to me. It's fine… It's good."

Sherlock stared ahead, before asking quietly, "Who is it?"

John understood the unspoken meaning of his question. _Who's caught your attention? Who's the first person you've opened up to since Mary?_

He oscillated on the balls of his feet, "Oh, well… You know her, Sherlock. She was at our wedding."

Sherlock blanched, "Janine?"

"What? _No-"_ John let out an exasperated breath, dropping his voice, "…Freya."

The Detective turned like a hawk, blinking several times. " _That_ is an eventuality I didn't expect."

"Well, I'm glad I can still surprise you." John huffed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but then Mycroft materialised beside him.

"Brother mine," Mycroft began, hushed, "Don't overreact."

Sherlock darkened, "What-"

His words fell short as two black cars rolled up on the tarmac. Smoothly, the doors opened. Viola's family emerged, going to the back to collect luggage. Lastly, Viola stepped out.

It took three seconds, for the pin to drop

"She slept with Wiggins?" Sherlock hissed, consonants clipped.

"Don't make a scene."

"After _everything-"_

The Esposito's started to make their way around the Holmes' with farewells.

"-She knows, Sherlock, that Wiggins shot Matteo." Mycroft explained, deftly quiet, "She's known for some time… We shouldn't have underestimated her."

Sherlock struggled to analyse his brother's words. "…And she-"

"-Forgives him, yes. That, and more."

Suddenly, he was accosted by arms around him, found in the form of Viola's mother.

Maria kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock… For saving our baby girl. I don't know what I can ever do to repay you."

Sherlock managed a smug smile. "I'm glad to see you and Paolo have made amends."

"How did you-"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Viola doesn't know. Things are very new, we don't want her getting her hopes up. We've had such a rocky relationship over the years, and God, I don't know why I'm telling you this-"

"You don't need to. Tedious domestic matters don't interest me."

Maria laughed, "Okay- Sure."

"Maria," Sherlock swallowed, "Stay strong for her. We've both been ruled by addiction, and we can't let her down. Not again… Promise me."

With a confident glance that reminded him of Viola, she nodded. "I promise."

"Papa?"

Viola stepped over to them. She appeared so awash with different emotions Sherlock couldn't differentiate them all. Forcibly, he pushed aside his shock at knowing that she'd discovered Wiggins' secret. Now wasn't about that.

"This," She began in light Italian, "…Is really, really, weird."

"I concur." Sherlock watched her intently, deciphering her, "Viola… I am so proud of you."

Her face dissolved into shock, "Papa-"

"Let me finish. I am not partial to expressing myself so openly and I perceive it'll be a long time before you hear these words again." He took a breath, "Viola, you came into my life… A young woman under hostage, bound by love to a man who'd hurt you. Now, although the notion is ridiculous, I find now I am standing in front of a different woman. You are not a woman defined by tragedy. Rather, the experience has turned you into a warrior. Viola, I endeavour to be a Papa to you, in whatever capacity you wish. I admit sentiment and family norms are not areas I pride myself in, however… You're my daughter, and- Well, I'm _glad_ for your presence in my life. I hope it isn't too long before you can return to London again."

Viola was frozen, completely floored.

Suddenly, he shook his head. "I've said my piece. Can I drop this matter now? I do not want to prolong this abhorrent talk of sentiment."

With a burst of laughter, she threw her arms around him. Sherlock lost air in surprise. Viola's head pressed on his shoulder, gripping him close. After a short moment, his arms awkwardly drew around her. Simultaneously, their eyes closed.

 _She's my daughter… Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes._

Molly nudged John, and together, they gasped in awe at the sight.

"…Wow." John breathed.

As Sherlock opened his eyes, a thick sensation gripped his throat.

Viola gently pushed herself away, wiping tears from her eyes, "God," She cursed with an awkward laugh, "I'm sorry."

"It's only a minor inconvenience." Sherlock replied with a thick laugh, wishing for the sensation to alleviate.

"I'll be in touch, and… See you soon?"

"Of course." Sherlock smiled, with a studious bow of the head.

Viola stepped towards him once more and pressed her lips to his cheek. When she stood back, he was awash with a kaleidoscope of emotions, a mirror of her own.

"Goodbye, Papa."

"Until our next meeting, Viola."

Viola brushed hair behind her ears, hesitating, but she stood her ground. With a gracious smile, she joined the rest of the family at the helm of the plane.

Suddenly, Sherlock grasped Molly's hand.

Together, Viola and her family made their way up onto the small jet. At the door, Viola looked back, hair blowing freely. She saw her new family, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Taking a breath, she raised a hand for a brief wave and stepped into the aircraft.

A few minutes later, they were gone.

"Well," Mycroft announced, "I think lemon cake is calling me… Duty calls."

"You know," Mrs Hudson mused, "I have the most perfect recipe for lemon cake. It has poppyseeds and blueberries…"

With the national matter of cake on their minds, politician and landlady began to depart.

Grasping his daughter's pram, John began to follow.

"Sherlock," John called, "Shall we give Lestrade a call? See if he's ready for-"

The words failed, as he glanced over his shoulder.

On the runway, stood detective and pathologist, in each other's arms. His head was pressed against her hair, eyes closed. Water decorated the top of his cheeks. Molly pushed herself upwards, and she pressed her lips to his. Sherlock held her tightly, arms circling her waist.

In John's peripheral, he swore he heard ocean waves beating upon the shore.

John watched his two best friends in love.

And he smiled.

* * *

 **Then, the curtain fell.**

 **Well, that's it, folks! Oh my gosh!**

 **...Except, the epilogue! Wait what?! I hear you cry! Yes, the epilogue is coming in a few weeks time, so keep your eyes peeled. Any unanswered questions, send them my way. (The 'What happened in the past with Sherlock' will be answered here).**

 **For Reference: The song mentioned, although not named was "Deh! Tu di un'umile preghiera" from Donizetti's "Maria Stuarda", it belongs in the public domain.  
This story has been influenced by lots of things- music, artwork, poetry. If anyone is interested, moments in this chapter, in particular, have been inspired from Laura Gibson's Single "Slow Joke Grin" (2018: City Slang Records), and poem "The Sun Rising" by John Donne (Published in 1633).**

 **So, although I shall mention this again at the Epilogue... I just want to say, thank you so much everyone for your support. Every follow, favourite, and review has kept this story going. I would love to hear your comments for this closing chapter. :-)**

 **Alongside the epilogue, I do have a brand new story in the works. So hit those alert buttons, folks!**

 **From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I go to Austria tomorrow to start an intense performance course... And I'll have a huge smile on my face knowing you've enjoyed this!**

 **See you at the epilogue!**


	25. The Epilogue: The Autumn Skeleton

**...Did you miss me?**

 **It feels like an ETERNITY, folks! Hope you are all doing well. :-)**

 **As promised, welcome to the epilogue of Turning On Its Axis. I'm so excited to give you all an insight into what our favourite characters have been up to in the months following the initial story. Thank you so much for your support. It has been so fulfilling to continuously receive your alerts, reviews and feedback during my absence. You are all fabulous!**

 **Grab a cuppa, put your woollies on and get comfy.**

 **Off we go...**

* * *

 **Six Months Later**

 **October 14** **th**

 **22:56pm.**

A saxophone drifted through the air, singing the sultry tones of decades past. A soiree of cinnamon and wine blossomed like gentle perfume. The days had grown shorter, the homes warmer, and yet the British government still spun its rehearsed dances.

Mycroft Holmes stretched his limbs with a muted hum, placing his pen down- at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the table's edge, naturally. Smartly, he procured a crystal glass of mulled wine. _It's not dissimilar to blood spilling in ice,_ he mused. He drew the wine to his lips.

 _Positively resplendent._

It may have only been October, but who was he to live by the social stereotype of what time of year to consume a 'festive' beverage?

From his warm shelter, ice eyes acquiesced the storm outside. Rain ran frantically down the long windows, racing, twisting and turning.

Mycroft had never had a penchant for rain. The precipitation which concentrated a great amount of its time over this small nation was nothing but a bore. Mycroft recalled how children would charge into rainfall clad in wellingtons, faces rosy with glee. Sherlock was like those children, even now. He chased criminals in storms like he'd fought make-believe monsters in them as a boy.

"Sir?"

Mycroft sat straighter. "Come in."

With sophisticated grace, Agent Chen entered the room. He braced himself to speak, but a hint of amusement tightened his cheeks. "I didn't take you to be festive, sir."

"It isn't _festive._ It's October." Mycroft dismissed quickly. "To what do I owe your presence?"

"Wiggins is here to see you."

"Ah," Mycroft clasped his hands, "Send him through."

The Agent bowed his head, "As you wish."

On his own once more, Mycroft breathed in the final few seconds of blissful quiet, decorated only by smooth brass and-

"Mr 'Olmes! Did you see Shezza busted that bleedin' alien?! I mean, of course it weren't an a _ctual_ alien, but it was amazin'!"

Mycroft raised a curious brow at the bedraggled storm that had thundered into his office. Wiggins was drenched from head to toe. A multitude of water and mud proceeded him, pooling on panelled floorboards.

"I did catch the reports in the papers. 'ET Phone Holmes: Hat detective unmasks 'Alien' serial killer.' Wasn't it?" Mycroft sniffed, "Abhorrent drivel."

Wiggins's grinned, probing in a stage-whisper, "John told me it took Molly 'Ooper _three hours_ to get the slime from Shezza's 'air."

 _That_ made Mycroft smirk, albeit a touch sardonically. He nodded towards the adjacent seat, "Join me."

"Yer sure? I'll gonna ruin your fancy furniture-"

"Sherlock's sat here in worse." Furthered the politician, earning a flicker of interest on Wiggins' face.

Wiggins trudged over to the seat. A _squelch_ sounded above the jazz as he sat.

With steel eyes, Mycroft observed the irregular that had become a companion of sorts in the past months. When Viola had asked him to save Billy Wiggins six months ago, Mycroft had accepted the role dutifully. After hiding her existence, _almost_ getting her killed and a _lmost_ making her complicit in murder, he understood he owed her, somewhat.

Discretely, Mycroft saw that Wiggins began receiving psychotherapy for the conditions that had plagued him his entire life. Medication was dismissed- It was imperative to avoid addiction- and Wiggins was never treated in a specialised facility; Every professional saw him in abandoned houses, where Wiggins was in control.

It was in this time that Mycroft began to Wiggins for what he was: Truly intelligent, a quick thinker, and surprisingly, good company.

After the events of his kidnapping, Mycroft was loathsome to admit he had _struggled_. It appeared, ironically, he was ruled by human fear as much as any man; images of Eurus, collapsing buildings and dark cupboards haunted him incessantly. For the first time in his life, he had _craved_ companionship. After everything, the _real_ battle was in recovery. Sherlock had understood, and helped, though he rarely commented upon it. He'd turn up at random hours and take to accompanying him in menial government tasks, jokes and insults flowing freely between them. Mycroft pondered if Sherlock desired the support too, after the trauma they had endured.

However, it was in Wiggins that Mycroft found true solace. Helping that man understand and manage his disabilities game him _purpose._ Mycroft enjoyed their meetings. It was a friendship he'd never predicted, but one he was determined to protect.

He decided Wiggins was to become a permanent fixture in his existence.

A decision was made: The homeless network would become attached to MI6. Those involved with intelligence work would be rewarded with prioritised housing, loans, and employment. Wiggins was the head of this programme, though he refused the official title. He truly was Robin Hood in the City of London.

Now, Wiggins was reformed. He was clean. He was _healthy_. Mycroft knew he'd need treatment for the rest of his life, but nevertheless was fulfilled.

Mycroft had saved Wiggins where he hadn't managed to save Eurus. Maybe, just maybe- He could live with that.

"So," Wiggins announced, "What 'ave you brought me 'ere for? Or are yer just gonna dissect me with yer eyes?"

Mycroft intertwined long fingers with practised grace. "There is an individual of interest who has just ascended to British soil. Assistance is required in monitoring them."

Suddenly, Wiggins dragged a damp notepad from his pocket. He grabbed Mycroft's pen from its perfectly aligned spot.

 _Writing improves his information processes,_ Mycroft recalled.

Wiggins began writing. "Sure, I can do that for yer, Mr 'Olmes. What's their charge? Human trafficking? Tradin' firearms?"

"Their predicament is more dangerous."

"Terrorism?" Wiggins continued, scribbling on the page, "Cause y'know I don't like to involve civilians with that." Dark blue eyes flicked upwards and widened at Mycroft's darkened expression. "S _hit…_ Not Moriarty? 'As the network finally made itself known?"

Mycroft's hand travelled over scars from steel restraints under his sleeves, though his expression remained statuesque. "Neither."

"Then what?"

The sharp clarity in the politician's face shifted, just a fraction.

Wiggins stared.

Mycroft's lips upturned.

"Viola Seraphina has returned to England."

* * *

 **Whitechapel Station, The London Underground.**

 **October 15** **th** **.**

 **09:18am.**

"… _Merda!"_

"Oh, here- I'll get it."

"Thank you." Viola giggled.

A young ginger man stood, offering Viola a handsome smile. "No worries. It's so dark down here." He held out a slim trowel, "I'm Joe."

"Viola." She told him. Smoothly, she pocketed the trowel in her white overalls.

"It's nice to have you with us. Hell, we need an anthropologist's opinion on this. Apparently, you've been the voice of reason in Southern Italy all year."

"Something like that." Viola shrugged, "It's… It's good to be back."

"Right, well- No time like the present- Or _the past,_ as us archaeologists say." Joe chuckled, a whimsical sound.

Viola glanced at him, biting back a smirk.

"…Not a pun woman, are you?"

"It's fine." She dismissed, "So, the skeletons?"

"The skeletons." He grinned.

Smoothly, Joe stepped down some makeshift stairs from the platform edge onto the railway lines, Viola following behind. Together, they descended into the tunnels of London's underground.

Around them, forensics and archaeologists worked under downlights. Viola's eyes sparkled with intrigue. "So, this is the Elizabeth Line? They told me Cross Rail accidentally stumbled upon a suspected plague pit whilst building the rails."

"Isn't it mad? Soon thousands of people will pass through here every day and not understand the history surrounding them. This ground hasn't been explored in centuries."

Viola didn't respond, her mind was inundated with a story she'd once heard. Years ago, Sherlock and John had prevented a terrorist attack within this very underground; images span in her peripheral, her father, domineering in a Belstaff coat, drifting aside her like a ghost-

 _Focus, Viola._

They began to move further into the shadows, amongst the dead and the dust. Eventually, they descended upon an active archaeology excavation.

Beneath them, skeletons watched them with huge grins.

With scathing intensity, Viola scanned every skeleton, every terrain etched with decay, every sign of life for the people who'd once existed.

Joe gestured to the skeletons, admiring the visible interest on his counterpart's face. "We've sent several samples to teams to absolutely confirm we are looking at plague victims, though we've had geographical sources come through which do match our theories".

"I'm presuming they're from the seventeenth-century outbreak, not the fourteenth?"

"Exactly. A new mass grave from the Great Plague of London."

"This is amazing."

"Amazing may not be the best word," Joe commented, amused, "Macabre, maybe."

Viola smirked.

"We've been tempted to call the police," Joe explained, "We _should,_ really. But the moment we do this will all be taken out of our hands, you see? If we contact them now, we could lose our opportunity to truly grasp this history."

"…Why do you need the police?"

"You'll see."

With a small gesture, Joe led her deeper into the darkness.

Mystery sunk into Viola's veins and held her captive. It was intoxicating. Viola never felt freer than at the scene of a mystery. Perhaps she was like Sherlock, in that way. After leaving England after _everything_ , mystery had become her method of healing.

But now mystery had taken her back to London. Back to the faces she had longed to see, but also dreaded to. Contact had been scarce ever since her departure. Though she thoroughly appreciated Sherlock's role in her life, when apart the question of _how_ to a _ct_ was troubling. Did she call him about her day? Did she _video call?_ She could practically hear him snorting with derision. Eventually, she'd settled on brief texts, and the occasional photos of corpses of interest, back and forth. Viola only hoped it had been enough for him too.

Viola hadn't told Sherlock she was back in London. She hadn't told anyone. She had to take a moment to feel the city's beating heart before rushing to Baker Street... To Sherlock, John, Molly, and Billy.

Billy hadn't heard from her since she'd left his arms… Six months ago. Every single therapist had warned her against contact, encouraging her to concentrate solely on her own recovery. At the time, she'd understood… Now, she was terrified. _God_ , would he hate her?

"Here," Joe announced, "See what you make of this."

Viola let out a breath, quickly averting her bright eyes to the soil once more. Beneath her lay a skeleton, similar to the others, and yet…

The air fell out of her lungs.

"Knew you'd like it," Joe grinned at her astonishment, "Try and explain that to me."

* * *

 **St Bartholomew's Hospital**

 **11:36am.**

"John, is it suitable for a host to kill a guest?"

"If by _host_ you mean yourself and by _guest_ you mean Anderson, then… Possibly, yes. Recommended? No."

Lestrade sighed, "John, you're not helping-"

The consulting detective raked a hand through his hair, storming down the corridor. "You wish me to take the professional opinion from an imbecile who entertained the theory that _six_ deaths were _actually_ related to extra-terrestrial activity!"

Anderson scrambled after him, "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be-"

"Outdated philosophical idioms, Anderson? You're meant to be a s _cientist!"_

 _"Sherlock."_ John warned.

With a theatrical sweep of the arms, Sherlock threw open the doors to the morgue. The doors almost slammed on the discombobulated men chasing behind him.

On a slab, Molly was preparing a body for examination. She gasped, scalpel almost slipping from her hands. "Sherlock!" She chided, hot glare cutting right into his high cheekbones.

"Doctor Hooper watch your grip. Mrs Brodeur nearly took a scalpel to the eye."

"Not that she needs her retinas anymore." Molly muttered.

John huffed, entering beside the detective. "Sorry, Molly. He's on the warpath."

Sherlock swooped his skull, " _I'm_ on the warpath? Scotland Yard has ignored the obvious all morning, John!"

Lestrade groaned, "We have _not_ been ignoring the obvious, Sherlock. It's just your theory is ridiculous-"

"Molly." Sherlock interrupted, peering at her keenly from the opposite side of the slab, "What here killed Mrs Brodeur?"

"I haven't started the-"

"Use your first mode of observation. Your sight. Now, if you please."

Then, he stood back, tilting his head. Molly hesitated, just for a moment, then set to work.

Anderson shuffled, " _This_ is why we don't call him out straight after a huge case, Greg. He's clearly exhausted-"

"Shh," Sherlock snapped, "Let her work."

For a couple of minutes, silence reigned. Molly worked, and Sherlock observed her. The way his lips curled up and his eyes brightened didn't go amiss by John or Lestrade.

Molly glanced upwards, lips pursed in thought. "She died from the burns, the blunt head trauma was incurred a _fter_ death."

Lestrade and Anderson deflated.

Sherlock looked thrilled.

John looked amused.

For the next few minutes, Molly expertly explained her reasoning to the beguiled witnesses around her. When she finished, the evidence was conclusive.

"Wonderful work." The detective proclaimed, "A simple case, scarcely a four. Lestrade, release the sister in custody, this is clearly the work of the victim's partner. Gavin, you may want to call for their arrest now."

"…Right." Lestrade mumbled, leaving the room, drawing his mobile from his pocket.

Anderson bobbed on the heels of his feet, opened his mouth to speak-

"I wouldn't." John smiled, too politely.

Anderson oscillated, glancing between John, Sherlock, and Molly. After deliberation, he left.

"Well," John announced, "Another case closed."

Molly grinned, "Less than twenty-four hours after you busted that alien-"

Sherlock grit his teeth. "It's was _not_ an alien-"

"-You're track record is _shining."_

"Murder doesn't have a timetable, Molly."

The pathologist rolled her eyes, before turning her full attention to her tall counterpart. With inquisitive eyes, she scanned features. "How's your hair?"

John groaned audibly from the other side of the room, " _Don't start._ All day it's been 'John, the winds moving my hair with a different velocity than before', 'John, how do you cope with your thinning locks? Doesn't your scalp get cold?"

"It was a valid question." Bit Sherlock, frowning.

Molly raised an eyebrow, "Sherlock, I cut off _two_ curls, it's hardly a homicide."

"It's quite possibly the most tragic event to happen to me in the past thirty years!"

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, simultaneously, John and Molly burst into laughter. Chuckles disintegrated into hysterics within moments. Their laughter shook the walls, the tools, the corpses encased in the-

" _Stop!"_ Sherlock bellowed.

Silence.

Through bleary eyes, John looked across at his friend. The detective was ramrod straight, staring at Molly with a cutting intensity. Something had happened amongst the laughter. Something monumental.

"Sherlock, you alright?"

"John, go home. Me and Molly need to go shopping."

Baffled, John looked to Molly. The pathologist was frantically looking between the two men, clearly as confused as he was. John observed her biting her lip, observing at Sherlock. Her brown eyes deciphering the blue until suddenly-

Something clicked.

A gasp sounded in the air, one hand immediately grasped the edge of the slab. Irises watched each other with unmatched strength, so powerful John swore the world turned on its axis beneath his feet.

Sherlock swallowed, face softening, and he nodded.

"…Right, is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"John," Molly began, "It might be best if you go home."

John's eyebrows forcibly attached in a knot across his forehead. "…Sure. I'll see you back at the flat later, yeah?"

Neither responded.

John frowned, waited a moment more, then took his leave. As his footsteps began to recede down the corridor, a huge squeal sounded in the air.

Followed by a bellow of laughter from Sherlock Holmes.

John froze, then soldiered on with a shake of his head. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were the _strangest couple_. For years, John had viewed the concept of Sherlock in love as, well- _non-existent._ John had always imagined Sherlock in love would be _different,_ but it wasn't like that.

Sherlock was still an obnoxious prick. But he was an obnoxious prick with a pathologist. Molly _complemented_ his traits in ways he never expected. She softened him, yet made him sharper. She made him more understanding of human emotion, though sometimes he'd use it against criminals in the most lethal ways. Sherlock hadn't become domesticated, yet Molly had become a quintessential part of their home.

Though Sherlock would never admit it, Molly had become Sherlock's other half. Like two earthly elements working in tandem.

As John exited St Bart's hospital, the autumn air biting his cheeks, one memory replayed in his mind. One which he still pondered over often. It was a day he never expected, though who could predict the decisions of Sherlock Holmes?

"Taxi!" John called, wavering his arms towards the road.

Thankfully, the black car of his attention pulled up. John climbed in, gave his address, and let his mind wander.

* * *

 **Three Months Before.**

John yawned contently. Rosie was curled on his chest, dribbling on his shirt. One small hand clasped a pop-up book open on her knee. Though he'd carry her upstairs to bed shortly, for now, he revelled in the gentle feel of her against his chest.

He imagined if it wasn't for Molly, this peace would have been disrupted hours ago.

Him and Sherlock had been in-between cases for a harrowing _six days._ The absence of mystery, murder, and the macabre, never suited the detective's temper well. Sherlock required cases like a child needed attention- Without it, his temperament could easily become inhospitable for every living specimen within a twenty-metre radius.

Here is where Molly Hooper came in.

After a turbulent afternoon, she had taken it upon herself to nip out for the essentials… Only to return with toes in a freezer box.

Upon arrival, Sherlock simply tossed scientific goggles in her direction and the experiments began. Now the pair sat in the kitchen, microscopes, slides, and for some reason, a saucepan, deodorant and apple cider vinegar between them, working away.

This was the power of Molly Hooper. She had the immense power of steadying Sherlock Holmes, whether by a gesture, a comment, or sometimes- though Sherlock would _never_ admit it- a simple glare.

Since the collapse of The Grand, and Viola's return to Italy, they had all attempted to return to normal. Yet their world was not the one it had been months before. John moved with Rosie back to the expanded Baker Street, and he was doing better. The belief that he'd _come home_ helped him move on from grief immeasurably.

From his seat by the fireplace, he'd had the privileged position of observing Sherlock Holmes adapt to life with love.

Sherlock and Molly's relationship didn't shift clearly at first. Rather, Sherlock prioritised cases, and Molly her work. At St Bart's, they were entirely professional. Lestrade had even gone as far as suggesting they'd ended things. This couldn't have been further from the truth. After all the danger, and the ferocity of the press, Sherlock had prioritised their privacy. Molly didn't stay at Baker Street, but he visited her often.

At least for the first few weeks.

It wasn't until his seventh week that John had ventured downstairs one morning to find them, _well_ -

Not quite, but _almost._

He'd nearly dropped Rosie, swore, and stubbed his toe all at once.

After oscillating with the countenance of a startled cat for a _horrific_ four seconds, "Good on you both!" Exploded from his throat and he bolted from the flat.

 _Good on you both,_ really?!

A deep "Well, this is not the first time Doctor Watson has accidentally stumbled upon a crime scene." Reverberated through the air, followed by muffled laughing.

John swore once more, then apologised to Rosie _for s_ wearing.

 _Good on them, indeed._

From then on the changes were small, but continuous. Sherlock and Molly were happy. They were never overly affectionate in front of others, but their love was clearer than the ocean. They laughed until their sides hurt, they debated until red with frustration, and other times they sat in comfortable silence; Molly with a novel in her hands, Sherlock in his mind palace. It was a strange relationship, John admitted- but entirely _there's,_ and that, truly, was an amazing thing.

Absently, John kissed his daughter's forehead, eyes finding a framed photograph of him and Mary on the mantlepiece. _Things have changed for the better,_ he thought, _if only you were here to see it._

"Ah," Molly's light voice cut in from the kitchen, "I missed the time. I must get to work. The graveyard shift awaits."

"You have experiments here." Sherlock drawled.

"Sherlock, I have patients awaiting their post-mortems-"

"A marginally extended decaying period won't cause them distress."

" _Charming_." Molly giggled, "I'm sure you can manage on your own."

John smirked, pushing himself to his feet. Sherlock was pouting, hands on his hips, casting a petulant look Molly's way. Meanwhile she was frantically pulling her hair into a ponytail.

"Oh yes. With an absence of cases _and_ pathologist, I'm sure I'm going to be _delightful._ Isn't that right, John?"

"A pleasure, I'm sure." John joked.

Molly shot him a humorous smile and dashed away to get ready. John excused himself and put Rosie to bed. As he remerged downstairs, Molly trotted past him, calling goodbye to everyone for the night. Sherlock was sat by the fireplace, countenance marble-like. Quietly, John took his own seat, clasped his hands, and Baker Street fell into harmony.

A few minutes were spent on companionable silence.

"You're reflecting."

John's face shifted to attention, "Sorry?"

"You're reflecting on the current circumstances that define your existence."

"Is that an invitation to share?"

"Merely an observation. Although," Sherlock's brows drew in together, "Molly has suggested I attempt the _people thing_ on you."

"People thing?"

"The _emotion… Support_ Thing. It's come to our attention that you and Freya terminated your affections recently."

John almost laughed, "Oh, don't worry about that. It was good, great even, but… It ran its course. I ended it… I just don't think I was ready, for it to not be Mary, you know? We didn't even sleep together."

"I know."

John grimaced, "… _Of course_ you know that. Git."

Suddenly, Sherlock vanished into the kitchen. Loudly, he threw open a cupboard and withdrew two mugs. Holding and inspecting each one for biological matter in one hand, he flicked on the kettle.

"Domestic sentimental matters. Boring."

"Sherlock?"

"We haven't scoured our email inquiries for two-hundred and thirty-four minutes. Care to have a gander, John?"

The army doctor rose to his feet. Something was _off._

"I do suppose we could investigate the missing Roman vase, though the thief is already obvious. Or perhaps the Lithuanian foreign ambassador may provide a semblance of entertainment-"

"Sherlock, mate… What's bothering you?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered like an ocean caught in changing tides. After a pause of indecision, he relented. "John, I have a case facing me… More dangerous than I have ever anticipated. It risks altering everything I am."

A dark emotion flared in John's chest, one that reminded him of war, of gunshots, of collapsing buildings. Quickly, he turned and slipped teabags into the mugs. "Is it Moriarty's network?"

"No," Sherlock explained as he poured water into the tea, "It's far more dangerous than that."

The kettle whistled.

"Please- Tell me."

The consulting detective placed a mug in his friend's hands. "You can't tell Molly."

"…Sherlock-"

"I need your honest opinion. There is no room for social niceties or obscene British politeness. I need you to be brutal _."_

The doctor looked between his tea and his friend, wondering how the calmness in his heart had shifted into a storm so quickly. "What's the case, Sherlock?"

"John… I want to become a father."

For an excruciatingly long moment, John Watson was lost to reality.

"…You _are_ a father. Viola is-"

"An adult. Though I appreciate Viola, her presence has only furthered this want. John, I've always placed extensive importance on my instincts. There is no doubt. I want to become a father."

All cognitive function had jutted to a halt. Where John expected a cutting remark about his delay in words, there was none. Sherlock was giving him time to _think._

"Just to clarify- This isn't an experiment?"

"No. Though your reaction is proving _remarkable_ to analyse."

John's mouth dropped to speak, but only a nervous laugh fell. He carried himself over to his seat, grateful for the gravity. By the time he lifted his eyes, Sherlock was already in his own seat, discerning his friend inquisitively.

"Let's get this straight," John breathed, "You're wanting to-"

"Reproduce."

The word _reproduce c_ aused John to choke. "Listen… This is for you and Molly to decide. This is your future."

"It's also yours." Sherlock replied simply, "It will alter the conditions of our tenancy agreement."

" _That's_ why you're telling me? Jesus-"

"No- _No,_ John." Bit Sherlock, "I need- _Lord, help me-_ I need your _advice._ "

He looked appalled.

John swallowed against a dry throat. "…In all this time I've known you, you've _never_ wanted this. I know Viola came as a surprise, and I know your life has changed tenfold, but you're still you, mate. How have you arrived at this decision?"

Sherlock shifted, and it hit John that his counterpart was as _uncomfortable a_ s himself over this discussion.

Somehow, it made him feel better.

"It started with Ahmed Moran."

John blanched. Images of the young man holding a gun to Sherlock's head spun in his synapses. Ahmed Moran had sought vengeance on Sherlock for assassinating Sebastian Moran, his father. Whilst Mycroft had been held captive, all the focus had been on Matteo Conti. No one had considered how deep Ahmed's anger had ran, and it had almost cost them their lives.

Three weeks ago, Ahmed Moran had been sentenced to life imprisonment. A combination of sentences ranging from kidnapping, theft, and attempted murder had tallied. The court had ruled remarkably quickly, Mycroft's influence asserted that.

When BBC news had broadcasted the verdict, everyone sighed in relief.

Sherlock didn't.

He hadn't said a word.

John suddenly understood. "You blame yourself for Ahmed's actions…You should have said something."

"What purpose would it have served?"

"Sherlock, listen… If a man I killed had their _child_ find me years later to exact revenge… I can't imagine the distress it would cause."

Sherlock placed his undrunk tea on the coffee table and reached over for his violin. As he spoke, his fingers ghosted the strings.

"Sebastian Moran was an abhorrent creature. Where Moriarty was a spider, he was a scorpion. He killed without thought, oversaw human trafficking rings and the trade of explosives. However, he succeeded in life in an area which I couldn't. He had capacity for love. When I had to put the safety of you and this very _nation_ at stake and terminate him… I tore him from his family. I was belligerently naïve to ignore their sentiments. Moriarty may have killed me, but I sent Ahmed to the gallows."

Sherlock glanced up at John, and observed his flatmate completely levelled in an effort to understand.

He continued. "Since his sentencing, I've encountered an unprecedented desire to make it right… To give a child a fulfilled life." Sherlock cringed at the sensitivity in his words, "I never wished for children. But now there's Viola, who proves the Holmes gene pool isn't entirely cursed… And there's Molly, who saved me when my mind failed me."

"Sherlock, what do you mean 'your mind failed you'?"

The consulting detective froze, a dangerous expression emerging and passing in an instant.

"…This is about when you were dead," John's voice faltered, realisation dawning. "This is about you and Molly _before."_

"I thought Agent Freya informed you of the incident."

"The _incident?_ No, _s_ he offered, but- But I said no in the end. Without your permission, I had no right know."

Sherlock swallowed, "I suppose, for the means of this reproduction discussion, you need a complete understanding of my genetic faults."

" _Genetic faults?"_

"…John, how long was I dead?"

"Two years, one month, thirteen days-"

"Wrong." His fingers snapped two discordant strings. "One year, ten months, twenty-four days."

A pit opened in John's stomach. "…What?"

"When I was dead, my final mission to penetrate Moriarty's network took me to Serbia. It was infiltrated. I was tortured for information. This cell had particularly inventive methods of provocation: Waterboarding, starvation, whipping… It was eventually Mycroft who interceded. Frankly, it was the most leg work I have ever seen him partake in."

Panicked, John drew himself to his feet.

"Tortured." John bit, "You were _tortured."_

"This is merely context-"

" _Don't_ …How long did they imprison you for?"

John expected a rapid-fire answer. He didn't expect Sherlock's jaw to drop, but then catch.

He didn't tell him.

"…I was returned to the SIS Building in London. A terror threat was imminent, and my services were required."

"…You were _torture_ d and flung to England to solve a _case?_ Mycroft treated you like- like-"

"A soldier. I _was_ a soldier for MI6. Ever since I got involved with The Woman-" Sherlock's jaw snapped shut. "Irrelevant."

John stared.

"Before announcing my resurrection to the world, I was to be debriefed. …That's where my faculties were corrupted."

" _Sherlock-"_

"Let me explain, John. Please."

There was something in Sherlock's eyes that made John obey. He wanted to scream. He felt sick. He felt betrayed.

"At the debriefing Agent Freya and my other superiors began to recreate the events of my impeachment in Serbia... Then a sickness assaulted me. Every deduction, memory, and thought became acidic. It hurt to think. It hurt to _breathe_ \- Then, I died. I _truly_ died. For twenty-six days."

"…I don't understand."

"John… I," Sherlock's jaw clenched, tight. "I succumbed to dissociative fugue amnesia. Sherlock Holmes ceased to exist."

John's stomach plummeted through his body, through the floor, into the very ashes on the earth.

For Sherlock Holmes, the loss of identity was the personification of hell.

"This wasn't my first experience with amnesia. I've suffered from systemised amnesia since Eurus was taken away- Though I didn't know this until recently… Dismantling Moriarty's network took a toll on me I didn't even comprehend until it was too late."

Words clawed at John's throat like knives, yet they refused to fall.

"The memories of this period in my life are hardly there. I know Freya referred to me as William- in hope I'd react to my birth name. That day when I lashed out at the Thames- she feared I would slip into fugue once more. That's why she called me William."

"Why didn't-" John expostulated, "Why didn't Mycroft send for me? I could have _helped_ -"

"John, believing I was dead was imperative to the success of the operation. He couldn't risk years of work. _Especially_ if the cost had been my sanity." Sherlock hastily continued as John's face reddened in anger, "Due to the fact I hadn't ever remembered Eurus, he believed he was facing my demise. He panicked. He sent for the one person who counted. He sent for Molly."

John was stunned.

"She sat with me, two hours a day, every day. Despite my cutting insults, volatile anger and paranoia, she stayed. She's _always s_ tayed. She read the blog, shared our memories… I _craved_ her attention, her stories, her loyalty." He took a breath, "After some time, in a manner less dramatic than you'd expect… Sherlock Holmes returned into existence. I believe my mind had to hibernate to heal, and Molly aided that." Two fingers plucked across two strings, a perfect fifth.

"So, you _returned to existence-_ And what, returned to solving crimes scarce weeks later?"

"Precisely."

John felt sick. Sherlock had come back too soon. He'd clawed back into London with open wounds. His world had changed; Weddings and engagements and babies and _God-_ he'd relapsed. Imagine facing a plethora of change when reclaiming his own identity. John was _furious_ he hadn't known. Christ, he was a Doctor! What if he'd suffered another psychotic break? What if he'd suffered flashbacks? What if he-

John's eyes met his friends, and he gulped. Sherlock's expression was grounded, careful, honest.

 _I had Molly,_ were the words Sherlock's eyes spoke.

John was floored.

Molly solved crimes with him at the start. They'd spent hours in the lab experimenting together and John hadn't questioned it. She'd visited him, brought him coffee, smiled at him. John wondered how many acts of friendship he hadn't seen; how many soft smiles had been shared _before._

It had cost her engagement.

After Sherrinford, after _the phone call,_ John had witnessed Sherlock say he was ready for more of a relationship with Molly.

To this day, he had wondered _how_ Sherlock had reached that point.

Molly Hooper had saved his life. His gratefulness had evolved, slowly, into love. It was simple, like nature, like _music._

 _You see, but you do not observe._

Molly and Sherlock had been inevitable.

Christ.

"Mate… I'm lost for words. I don't know what to say."

"Nothing." The Detective replied simply, "It is merely the context that you wished for. In the matter of future fatherhood, it is imperative that you understand my neurological faults. But where I am a liability, consider Molly's strength."

John had a million questions teeming like rattling songsters in his stomach. Yet, his tongue held. Sherlock's brow was drawn with a sense of claustrophobia that meant he could flip into deductions, or into composing symphonies. Sherlock was not prone to discussion of the heart, and John knew he couldn't press too far.

"Thank you for telling me." John told him, sincerely.

"Tell me, understanding me as you do, is this want for a child an absurd notion?"

John needed a lie down. "You want my honest opinion?"

Sherlock tilted his head in confirmation.

"…I think you and Molly deserve the bloody world, after everything you've gone through. But," John grimaced, but he knew his duty was in honesty. "I don't think it's right to bring a child into this world because of guilt, or out of appreciation for Molly… It needs to be for your own joy, for the want of family."

A pressure weighed itself on John's chest. He _hated_ that he could move Sherlock away from a decision like this. Sherlock had always been an enigma, a fresco of glorious colour at breath-taking height. In this moment, John felt like he was playing God.

"I understand yours and Molly's journey to each other been remarkable, and I know that Viola has changed your entire perception on the world, but this is still so new. …I'd give it time. If after a while you truly think this is what you want, then I will support you every step of the way."

"…You truly believe _patience_ will provide clarity over this decision?"

"I hope so."

Sherlock's cheek clenched, and he nodded. John almost sagged in relief.

"If this eventually proceeds," Sherlock started, "It appears your experience in furthering the species may actually prove useful."

" _Furthering the species_." John echoed, cheeks lifting upright.

"Yes, John. Multiplying, procreating, sowing the seed-"

" _Okay!"_ John exclaimed, "Stop. Right there. Now."

Sherlock pouted. "I can hardly seek council from corpses and criminals, can I? My social circles are limited- There's you, or- Lord _\- Mycroft._ "

"…My God, I can hear it now. _Uncle Mike."_

For a moment, the men remained still.

Then, they chuckled.

* * *

 **October 15** **th** **.**

 **14:12pm.**

Viola had asked the research team to not call the police. She had told them to shut the entire excavation site down.

And they had listened.

It was _remarkable_ how people reacted when Viola dropped the names Holmes into conversation. It was as powerful as a tale of English folklore.

Swiftly, Viola let down her hair and slipped her burgundy chesterfield coat over her shoulders. Behind her, she could feel eyes deciphering her in wonderment. _Do people look at Papa like this?_ Refusing to look their way, she collected her small rucksack, took a breath, and started her ascent out of the underground.

When returning to England, Viola had wished to go as long as possible before people realised who she was. Months ago, her face had been plastered over every major tabloid across the country. In Italy, she had continued to gain attention, for a while. But eventually, the frantic flashes became brief. The lions moved onto their next prey. Viola wasn't interesting anymore.

Thank God for that.

Back in England, she feared her life would spiral into madness one more.

London danced around her as she exited onto a busy street, the cool air waltzed on her skin. Blinking against the daylight, she set off into the city.

Viola couldn't believe the discovery that had been laid out to her that morning. An archaeological site had become a crime scene in an instant. As her nerves had sparked with anticipation, one singular thought ambushed her synapses.

 _The person we need is Sherlock Holmes._

So, she didn't think.

She told them who she was.

The recognition spread through the excavation site like a tsunami; eyebrows raised, gasps sounded, hands stilled.

They listened. They agreed to her wishes. Because having a Holmes on the case had more authority than the law. _E' stupefacente._

Mind captivated, Viola didn't hear the whirring buses, the tourists' chatter, nor the brisk footsteps of commuters. Absently, Viola pressed a button for traffic lights, staring out at the road ahead. Her brain twisted-

"Pardon me, Miss. Got any spare change?"

"No, sorry."

"It's just- I kinda think that you owe me."

"Sorry?"

The traffic lights pinged.

Viola stepped out to the road-

A hand grasped her arm.

Viola gasped, wrenching her arm away.

Then, everything stopped.

A familiar face stared down at her.

The Anthropologist stared at the Homeless Man.

"Well, er-" Billy's head twitched, and he nervously glanced away, "Missus 'Olmes, I d _o_ think you owe me for that fish n' chips that one time. Y'remember? At the steel works… That three quid bled me well dry."

For a long moment, Viola was still.

"...Billy."

"That's me name."

Suddenly, Viola moved. Without conscious decision, her limbs swung around, pulling the homeless man into her arms.

For the first time since landing on England's soil, Viola felt she was coming home.

Wiggins was stunned, shocked stiff, and unable to move. Memories assaulted him. Her lips against his, heartbeats pressed against one another, whispered names and hands gripped in between them.

 _You awkward sod. Do something!_

Frantically, Wiggins glanced around, when his eyes fell upon a small CCTV camera upon an adjacent building.

It was pointing right at them.

"Viola," Wiggins managed, "Not here."

Viola's head flicked back upright, her features dazzled back into the present. Their faces were inches apart, both suspended in an array of emotions too fortuitous to understand.

Wiggins grasped her hand and began leading her away.

Soon, Wiggins let them into a small side street in between two restaurants. He didn't explain, he didn't have to. Their pace slowed, until eventually they came to a stop.

The hustle of London drifted into quiet.

For moment, they simply stood, eyes longing but bodies holding back.

Billy's nervous grin remerged, "'Ello, Missus 'Olmes."

"Billy, _Dio,_ how did you know I was here?"

"Mr 'Olmes told me."

Viola blanched, "Sherlock knows?"

"Ah, no-" His nose crinkled, "Erm- No, Mycroft did. The big brother, the _literal_ Big Brother- If you catch me drift."

Viola blinked, confused, but then she sighed, "I should have known this would happen."

"Probs." Wiggins agreed with a snicker, "Don't be mad at 'im though, 'e told me for me own wellbein'"

A flash of guilt passed over Viola's face. "I was going to come to you, it's just-"

"You needed time, yeah. I get it."

Briefly, silence reigned, decorated with the echoes of London's beating heart.

"Wait," Wiggins gasped, "Flamin' Nora!"

"What?"

"Your English… It ain't shit!" The curse fell with a shout and a huge unadulterated grin of surprise.

"That's a relief-"

"No- _Seriously-_ Viola, it's…" Billy gestured wildly with his arms, "It ain't half bad! 'Ow did you… 'Ow did you improve this much in bloody _Italy_?! Like, I thought that if you were abroad that-"

"Billy, I work for the Royal School of Pathology… I was sent as part of a British research team. I _had_ to improve my English. Most of the team were English speakers and," An uncharacteristic blush blossomed on high cheekbones, "I felt it was important, to make the effort… For my family back here."

Billy flushed, adams apple pulsing. "Viola… You should know, I… I haven't been with anyone else. I _ah_ \- Look, I'm not expectin' anythin', alright? What we said them months ago, it was in the 'eat of the moment. I was strugglin' and you were grievin' and," His arm swept to rub the back of his neck, "I'm not saying it weren't worth it, because it was, _God…_ But just because you're back don't mean you're gonna fall at my feet again."

Inside, his subconscious was berating him- _You've missed her! You still love her! Why can't you tell her that?_

Viola stared, shivering now. The words he spoke hung in the air as heavy as the clouds above their heads. Billy Wiggins had waited for her for six whole months… Yet was succumbing to ugly self-doubt. The man before her looked reformed. A body once too thin now looked leaner, and less pale. The tattered clothes she was used to seeing him were different, too. Worn yes, but not falling apart. His face was clean shaved. His hair, though un-kempt, seemed cut recently.

He was transformed.

Viola hadn't slept with anyone since him, nor had she wished to. But, honestly, that was because she'd concentrated so completely on healing herself. …Was she ready to commit herself to someone again?

"Billy," She began, cursing against the hesitancy in her voice, "Honestly… My feelings towards you haven't changed, but things are different now… We should probably focus on re-learning one another. No labels, pressures, or expectations… Just learning."

Slowly, two dark blue eyes finally raised. Billy's face was softer, free from the aloof arrogance he wore so well. There was genuine hope there, and it made Viola's heart warm.

Wiggins shook off his brown coat and laid it on the ground, to which Viola merely raised a brow when he suggested they sit on it. But together, they sat, arms brushing and hands touching. Neither flinched. It felt calming.

Viola began to venture questions about her family, and he asked about hers. Viola told him that her mother and Paolo were still together, but that she'd briefly relapsed a few months ago. After The Grand's collapse, Maria had suffered with anxiety regarding her daughter's safety. The anxiety manifested into paranoia and then, she sought comfort the best way she knew… But that was the past. She was getting help. Things were progressing, slowly.

Billy explained with vivacity some downright _ridiculous '_ Holmes' events that left Viola laughing helplessly. The tales encompassed his body so completely he appeared as a trained thespian. There was an audience in his eyes, scenery in his fingertips, and a myriad of characters in his eyebrows. Viola hung onto his every word. Billy saw mysteries like she did, an electrifying experience that-

"The bones!" Viola blurted.

Wiggin's jaw was left dropped open, frozen mid-word, "Y'what?"

Viola scrambled to her feet, "The bones! In the underground- I'm on a _case."_

Wiggins clambered upright and lifted the now muddied coat with him. "You're on a case?"

"It's archaeology _turned_ crime scene." Viola sighed at Billy's lost expression, "I need to take it to Sherlock."

"You wanna go to Baker Street now?"

"…Not yet. I need to bring him some evidence. But they've closed the excavation down for the day. I couldn't just _take it_ when they were all there, and I don't know how to-"

Then, she stopped. An expression of concentration evolved into something else entirely.

Wiggins stared, slack-jawed. "…I know that look."

"What look?"

"That's the _'Olmes got an idea that's probably illegal'_ face."

Her hands steepled together. She stepped into Wiggin's personal space.

"Billy… How do you feel about grave robbing?"

" _Grave robbin'?"_

"With a _touch_ of breaking and entering."

Wiggins gulped. Viola stared him down firmly. _How can she look so magnificent talking about robbing skeletons? God she's beautiful. I've missed her. I want to-_ "Can I kiss you?"

Viola lost air. She froze. Nerves and shock clouded the glittering energy that had become her moments before. Her hands twisted. "…That's not what I was expecting you to say."

"Me neither." Wiggins agreed numbly. The words had fallen entirely of their own accord.

His cheeks scorched with embarrassment. Stealthily, he prepared himself for the blow. His eyes fluttered shut, his arms falling limp against his sides-

A soft sensation met his lips.

If their hands entwined had felt like embers against firewood, this kiss was the first flames rising in the hearth.

Together, their lips moved.

Wiggins blanked.

Viola moved achingly slowly, mapping out every sensation she elicited. Wiggins found himself valiantly fighting the combustion from pent up passion having craved her for months. Viola was something else. A marvel. A phoenix.

 _Don't lose control, don't moan- Did you just moan? Ohgodohgod-_

All too soon, she let them part.

When Wiggins' opened his eyes, a huge wave of relief hit him to see Viola looking just as flustered as he was. His ego needed the mutual support.

Viola cleared her throat. "…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't you _ever_ apologise for that, Missus 'Olmes."

A bashful grin broke out on Viola's face. "I've missed you."

"Your absence 'as been bloody rubbish."

They chuckled.

"So… Grave robbing?"

"Grave robbin'".

Confidently, Viola began to lead them out of the side street.

Wiggins huffed beside her.

"Are you alright?"

"Just thankin' the deities it's freezin'. Six months… I nearly combusted back there."

They emerged onto the street, with Viola grinning ear to ear.

* * *

 **16:14pm.**

The grey was dusted with orange.

This wasn't the London she remembered.

The air carried a damp chill, yet the suns last embers warmed skyscrapers. The orange met navy in the sky, a siren to the winter to come. Bypassing cars hummed, a wet sound, as they collapsed with puddles from recent rainfall.

A heart thudded rapidly, syncopating with the patter London.

The buildings on the side of the road were familiar, ingrained in her memory. Victorian homes lined elegantly, white against the grey. Amongst the almost identical scenery, one building seemed to shine brilliantly.

Gold lettering against a black door.

 _221B Baker Street._

Viola stared in wonderment, at her Papa's home.

Above their heads, a shadow drifted passed a window. Back and forth.

Sherlock Holmes.

Long hands gestured around him. His head was arched inside, but Viola could practically hear the intelligent remarks falling from his lips.

"…He seems busy."

"Nah," Wiggins cut in, "'E's not workin'. Trust me, 'e's so chill 'e could be on 'oliday in Majorca."

"I shouldn't interrupt-"

" _Viola."_ He placated her, "Stop procastinatin'. Come on. It'll be fine, it will."

"I couldn't do this without you." Viola told him openly, with a playful smile.

"Into battle?"

"Into battle."

Together, Anthropologist and Homeless Man stepped towards 221B Baker Street.

* * *

 _Knock knock-_

"… _The decorations are entirely up to you. We want to see a personal flair to each bake-"_

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Sherlock- the door!"

"… _An ocean landscape, topped with orange buttercream corals-"_

 _Knock knock knock-_

"John?" She raised her voice.

"… _Get the oven time right to protect the mixture-"_

… _Knock knock-_

Mrs Hudson scowled, hoisting herself upright. The Great British Bake Off would have to wait. _Those boys!_ Would Boris deliver on his showstopper sponge? W _ell, she'd never know now!_

Briskly, she unlatched the door and pulled it open.

She'd expected clients, she'd expected arch nemeses, she'd expected the blooming Queen's representatives.

She certainly hadn't expected Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes.

Shock blossomed into pride. Blimey, Viola was _healthy!_ Her hair was longer, her face rounder, her figure young, curvaceous, and healthy, as opposed to the exhausted figure she'd last cast her eyes on. If Sherlock took care of himself _properly,_ she imagined he'd look more so like this. Gosh, she was _beautiful._

Glancing aside her to Wiggins with a permanent blush on his cheeks, she imagined he thought the same.

Did Sherlock know Viola was coming? She'd _murder_ him if he did. Invite your daughter back from Italy and _not_ give your landlady enough notice to stock up on biscuits? _Poppycock!_

Realising a pregnant pause of surprise was quickly becoming an extended held breath, Mrs Hudson collected her thoughts. Her eyes brightened, her arms extended. The matriarch of Baker Street dropped her jaw and-

" _Shhh!"_

Viola waved her arms in warning. Wiggins was shaking with withheld laughter beside her.

Mrs Hudson froze in shock, but then realised.

 _Ah, it is a surprise… Sherlock is off the hook, this time._

Mrs Hudson ushered the youngsters in and gestured them towards the stairs. _Oh, the spontaneity of the young!_

Viola went first, fingertips tracing the wallpaper. The last time she'd been here, the flat had been undergoing repairs from the explosion. She'd never seen Baker Street when it was _Baker Street._ Mrs Hudson's glee grew tenfold. Behind her, Wiggins followed, dutifully carrying the small case they'd-

" _Sorry_ Mrs Hudson, do we have a client? I just got Rosie down and _oh my bloody hell-_ "

Viola clamped a hand over John Watson's mouth.

Comically, the soldiers' eyes protruded over her hand. They met on the stairs, just on the landing adjacent to 221B.

Wiggins snorted behind her.

' _Client'_ Viola mouthed, glancing towards the door hopefully.

It took John a moment to catch on. He observed the oddly formed three musketeers on the descending staircase and stood straighter.

 _Mission Accepted._

Stealthily, John peeled open the door. He surveyed the battleground. The subject of concern was not to be seen. They shuffled into the flat.

Viola made three steps, then stopped rigid. Her jaw parted slightly at the sheer sight of the space around her. _Where was Sherlock?_ She'd seen him in the window moments before.

Silence was disturbed as Wiggins escaped the approaching party, slipped into the kitchen and pulled a custard cream from the biscuit tin.

 _We are on a case!_ Viola glared.

 _I'm hungry!_ He glared back.

"Sherlock," John called, "We have a client."

"Not now." Came the sharp reply, from a room Viola supposed was his bedroom.

"I think this case is a seven- A six at least!"

" _We're busy!"_

Everyone straightened.

Viola flipped her head around to Mrs Hudson. The elder lady smiled, mouthing _Molly._

"Sherlock, I _really_ think this is worth your while!"

" _For God's sake-"_ A rumbled, "John! Point _One:_ How is it you can determine the _severity_ a case without having interviewed a client first? You have the observation capacity of a _goldfish!_ Point _Two:_ Surely you comprehend the social construct that-" The door flew open- "-Determines when privacy should be adhered to. Any client I saw right now would not be more interesting than-"

The consulting detective rounded the corner.

And froze.

Contorted lines of anger dissolved into complete unadulterated shock.

His world turned on its axis.

The man became _Papa._

At that moment, Molly rounded the corner. Her expression vanished in replaced itself with shock.

Viola's head tilted, a face that spoke a thousand words forming a quiet smile. "Hi, Papa."

Sherlock blinked- once, twice, and then moved. Within two strides, he pulled Viola into his arms.

 _Six months, and she's home._

The endorphins that flooded his mind palace were entirely unprecedented. An explosion of deductions left him breathless; uncontrollable, frantic, magnificent, just like her. _She's pleased to see me._ Memories flashed in rapid succession: her on the screen in Sherrinford, their first meeting, solving her first live murder, Mycroft's disappearance, scorching anger as handcuffs secured on her wrists, her limp form unconscious in Mycroft's arms, sobbing at Matteo's body, her smiles at Trafalgar Square, her stepping into the plane.

 _You've missed her, you've worried about her._

Winded, he stepped back. Sharp eyes dissected her with blistering precision.

 _New callouses on her fingers, been working with tools. Recent. Fieldwork. Hair longer: Reclaiming identity. Chin set higher. Confident. Gained eight pounds. Healthy. Active. Settled. Lips slightly swollen from recent-_

Two blue eyes shot to the side.

Wiggins waved, awkwardly.

Sherlock's jaw twitched.

 _Distracted. Impact of emotions? No- Arms are steady, body held. One brow raised in, what- Expectation? She wants you to see! Dust debris in her hair but not clothes- been wearing overalls. Muscles taught on eyeline- strained, working in darkness._

He glanced at his hand, two fingertips having caught extracts of the dust- _No, debris. Soil. Dirt. Zinc, cadmium, limestone- Mining- No, industrial work. Recent metal infusion but debris is old-_

"Contaminated colluvial deposits?"

Viola's face flashed with recognition.

Everyone else frowned.

"Colluvial- What? Sherlock she's been away for _six months-"_ John protested.

"He's working it out." Viola explained.

 _Colluvial deposits with metal influence. Archaeological work interrupted by industry. Production? No- Transport? Oh-_

 _Oh!_

"I take it there has been an archaeological discovery upon the new Elizabeth Line platforms?"

Viola's brow raised, one hand settled on her hip. "You're _incredible."_

"Your English has improved." He shot back.

"Bubonic plague victims," Viola replied, holding back a smile at his words, "From the Seventeenth Century outbreak. A mass grave underneath Whitechapel Station, discovered whilst building new rails for the Elizabeth line."

Molly gasped, professional interest piqued. "Plague pits on the tube line are _folklore."_

"Apparently not." Viola grinned.

"Well!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed suddenly, "I'll pop the kettle on, shall I? If we're going to get straight to the madness, at least let me nurse it with a cup of tea."

"Sorry," Viola laughed, brushing a hand over her hair.

Mrs Hudson chuckled airily. "Do _not_ apologise. We've all missed you. It's not your fault you've inherited the Holmes-esque entrance. Straight to business!"

Viola giggled as the landlady pivoted flamboyantly towards the kitchen. To her surprise, she saw Billy drag down the box of teabags from a high shelf and pass them over without asking. Viola smiled.

Over the next few minutes, Baker Street transformed into the helm of an investigation. To Mrs Hudson, this was second nature. However, to have Sherlock's daughter leading the investigation, was extraordinary.

The residents of Baker Street were crowded around the kitchen table. Sherlock was poised on a stool, elbows rested against the wood, fingers smartly steepled against his chin. His expression was sharp, calculated, yet Mrs Hudson was not privy to the surprise and appreciation in his eyes. He was thrilled Viola was home.

She caught him, oh- _three times now,_ glancing at Molly. Brilliant Molly Hooper, who had changed his life. At his side, the pathologist's eyes were alight with restrained excitement.

John Watson, Sherlock's _other_ other half was at the latter's opposite side. One hand wielded a baby monitor, ready to soldier into action at Rosie's first cry. Around the corner, Viola and Billy were hastily unzipping a small suitcase. Though Viola was focussed on the task at hand- A true Holmes by nature- Wiggin's eyes remained entirely on her. He was smitten.

These people, including herself, had become Sherlock's family. They were the family found amidst a storm. Truly, it was a beautiful thing.

Viola grinned as she brought out a small hardback padlocked case and placed it in the centre of the table.

John leaned inwards, Sherlock pushed himself straighter, and Molly raised a brow.

Mrs Hudson smiled.

"So, don't be angry." Viola started as her hands began unlocking the padlock, "What we have done _may_ be morally questionable-"

"And illegal." Wiggins filtered in flatly, though he smirked.

" _But_ I think it is worth it. I need your professional opinion on-" She flicked the box open, and pivoted it to face them, " _This."_

Within the small black box, was a tiny item in a sanitised cushioned bag.

John blinked, "That's a phalanx bone."

"Stating the obvious, John." Sherlock deadpanned, earning a glare.

"It's from a left-hand thumb." Viola supplied.

Molly flicked her head upright, "You _stole_ this from the archaeological site?"

"Borrowed it."

Sherlock beamed.

Quickly, Viola lifted it out, placing it on the table. Underneath, she raised another. "Here's a metatarsal bone from the right-foot. And," She lifted another, "One thoracic bone from the spine. Now, observe and tell me what you see."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his daughter. It was a challenge. Immediately, he switched into action.

Wiggins lay a hand on the small of Viola's back. Mrs Hudson passed over a steaming cup of tea and-

"These aren't from the same person." Molly finalised. "The thumb is from a person of short stature, whereas the toe joint is from an individual with large feet. The spine decay suggests someone of old age, but the other specimens don't appear like that."

Viola stilled, amazed at how quickly Molly had realised.

"So, these aren't from the same person." John cut in, "But they were found on the same victim?"

"Yes, but you're missing the obvious."

Sherlock puzzled his brow, his jaw dropping slightly. His head tilted, and- "Oh… _Oh!_ That's brilliant!" One palm slapped the table.

"What is?" Questioned Molly.

Viola turned to the others and explained. "These bones were found on an _archaeological_ excavation. On a site we estimate not to have been excavated in approximately three hundred years at least. So _how_ have these bones, all of which are _under_ a hundred years old, ended up in a mass grave from the 1665 plague?"

John gasped. "Wh… That's impossible."

"Someone had to know the site was here," Viola continued, "Probably before the Elizabeth Line was even a possibility. Someone has tried to cover up a series of murders _using_ London's history."

"I need to visit the site! I need data. I need documents. Time is of the essence!" He spun, lowering his upper body until he was parallel to the bones, "Oh, you're _gorgeous._ A beautiful tapestry of raw murder with a thousand threads of deceit. I can _feel_ it!"

Suddenly, Sherlock swung around the table and dragged Viola away from its edge. He grasped her lower arms, a pure visceral grin on his features. "Welcome home, Viola."

"Glad to be back, Papa."

He let go of her as quickly as he had taken hold and bounded off towards his bedroom. "John, get your coat! _The game is on!"_

"Wha- Mate, I can't- I have Rosie!" John yelled back.

"Oh shush!" Mrs Hudson admonished gently, slipping the baby monitor from his hand and holding it under folded arms, "I'll watch her."

"I shouldn't-"

"I'll babysit one child if you watch the other. Deal?"

John hesitated, just for a moment. But then, as always, the promise of mystery won out. "Thank you." He smiled, and then immediately chased to his own flat.

Molly was used to seeing Sherlock in the beginnings of a captivating mystery. It was an all-encompassing drug. In these moments, he was vivacious, frantic, a kaleidoscope of energy.

Ten years before, it had been this that had captivated her heart.

Molly hurried after Sherlock to his bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She expected the whirlwind of energy. She expected frantic ocean wave exploding into rainbow refractions.

Yet there was silence.

Molly's eyes widened then softened at the sight of Sherlock. He was sat against the floorboards, back pressed against the wall, palms on his knees. Dark curls sculpted around his forehead, his eyes were closed.

 _He's overwhelmed,_ Molly thought.

Without word, she slid down the wall next to him. Her head fell against his shoulder, a subtle reminder that she was there against the rushing rivers she imagined running through his mind.

Sherlock's fingers ghosted her knuckles, the small callouses, the edge of her palm, before linking them together.

"Viola will be waiting for you."

"She can wait. I have a multitude of information to process."

"You are happy she's here, aren't you?"

Two blue orbs flicked open. "Of course. Viola's sudden appearance _and_ the premise of a crime are two positive events." Then, he faltered, leaning his head back, "I just didn't anticipate having not one Holmes walk into my life this afternoon, but _two_."

A secretive grin emerged. "…I know. My god, this has to be _fate."_

"Don't make jokes, Molly." Quipped the detective. "Though I must admit John has the most _abhorrent_ timing."

He chuckled, and Molly giggled into his shoulder.

It was true. John Watson _did_ have awful timing. For in the moment before John's voice had rang through the flat, Molly and Sherlock had stood over a single line of dye, their worlds changed.

Their suspicions confirmed.

 _Pregnant._

For such an intelligent pair, the sight had rendered them speechless. It was merely _biology_. They both understood the mechanics, the statistics, and even the chemical processes. Yet, this- _their_ creation coming into fruition was truly an unexplainable force.

Molly had grasped the test in both hands, mind scrambling to make sense of the endless implications. Meanwhile, Sherlock raked his eyes over her; scrutinising every artifice of life that became her. Now, _our child,_ was whispered amongst every single word, every fact, every atom.

Months ago, Sherlock had pondered what happened when the ocean met the woodland. The question had plagued him relentlessly. For while he was as wild, uncontrollable, and unpredictable as the ocean; Molly was as diverse, bountiful, and strong as the earth.

The answer had been simple.

When the ocean met the woodland, life blossomed.

Sherlock's eyes had ventured towards her abdomen, bound by a starlit silence.

Then, John's yell had echoed across the flat.

Memory receding and laughter subsiding, Sherlock dipped his head to study Molly sat aside him. A familiar lopsided smile met his eyes.

"Do we tell them?" Molly asked softly, "Viola's going to become a sister at twenty-two…"

"No. For now, this case remains private."

A brow raised teasingly. "Are you labelling our unborn child a _case?"_

"A case that demands utmost confidentiality." Smartly, Sherlock pivoted and smoothed her jaw with careful hands. "Until I can be sure that there's little danger. Of course, Eurus _is_ dormant, and Moriarty's network remains quiet… I'd rather keep them that way." He paused, "A culmination of us both may be the most dangerous thing in the world."

"I understand." Molly told him, brushing her nose against his.

Without thought, her eyes dropped to his lips, and simultaneously, they met each other in an embrace.

It had been eight months since their first kiss, and Sherlock had never gotten used to the white noise that eclipsed his synapses. Molly laid her hands upon his chest, inviting more contact, and one of his settled upon the back of her head. Sighs escape then, silent promises uttered in caresses. For a few blissful moments, the world was theirs.

Apart, their foreheads rested together. A breathless air surrounded them.

Sherlock had never anticipated this would be his life. He wasn't a domestic man. He never would be. He still existed above the wide perceptions of sentiment that gripped the ordinary.

But _this,_ Molly Hooper and their unborn child, were an anomaly _beyond_ the ordinary.

They were to become his weak spot, his disadvantage, but a perfect one at that.

Molly nuzzled his cheekbone. "This is really happening."

"It appears so." He replied factually, although his heart raced.

"Come on," Molly started, "You have a case to solve, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet first, pulling Molly up alongside him. "Bring your notepad. I want your memory recall in top condition." Energetically, he swooped over to the wardrobe and removed a Belstaff coat.

"Do you want me to come?"

Sherlock pushed his collar upright, "What's the benefit of standing amongst the dead without my pathologist?"

A knowing grin spread quickly, encompassing the light of Molly's eyes. Sherlock tossed her scarf and a jacket, and in moments they stood by the bedroom door.

Outside, they could hear laughter. Viola's lyric voice expressing sheer enthusiasm of the case ahead, Wiggins making jokes, John reprimanding said jokes, Mrs Hudson reprimanding John _for_ reprimanding said jokes. The music of their family.

"From one Holmes to another." Molly quipped.

"You make it sound as abhorrent as a _Christmas_ gathering _,_ Molly."

"You love it really."

"I'd _love t_ o see you prove that."

"Perhaps we should invite Mycroft to this case, too. Or your mother."

Sherlock blanched, "Are you purposefully setting up a homicide?"

Molly laughed, and stepped onto her tiptoes, kissing him once more. She grinned against his surprised lips, arms securing around his waist. Sherlock tilted his head, and captured control back effortlessly- _Focus!_

He parted them sharply and restrained a proud smirk at her gasp.

Slowly, his eyes drifted to where his hands had fallen. Together, in neat symmetry, his fingertips brushed against her abdomen.

His face softened.

It was remarkable.

"Sherlock." Molly breathed. "Let's not keep them waiting."

"I love you."

Three words, that had once felt foreign, fell like waves caressing golden sands.

Molly kissed him once more, "I love you too."

Sherlock grinned, a rare smile- One which, in the years to come, Molly would come to understand was reserved purely for their family. Swiftly, he grasped the handle and swept open the door.

Loud footsteps announced his coming before the others saw him. He emerged, Belstaff billowing, eyes alight with clinical focus.

Instinctively, those eyes affixed on his daughter; Viola Seraphina, a whirlwind of strength, with a curiosity that paralleled his own. Viola, who after trials, now stood as a woman of dignity.

A survivor.

Her lip tipped in a smile, more open than his own.

 _Will my future child have that smile? Have our blue eyes or Molly's brown? Will they dream of pirates?_

Viola dropped her hands to her hips, "Are you ready, Papa?"

Sherlock swallowed, stumped at his own thoughts. At his side, Molly touched his arm. She understood. Of course, she did.

"A series of murder victims interspersed amongst plague victims in what is believed to be 'unexplored' ground," Sherlock announced, voice crisp as the autumn air outside.

Viola's head raised, "A murderer who uses the existing dead to hide their own crimes."

"It's magnificent-"

"A fresco of murder-"

" _Christ!"_ Wiggins exclaimed with a shudder, "You're as bad as each other!"

"What did you expect?" Sherlock shot back, "Any person unlucky enough to be struck with the Holmes genes is undoubtedly going to be reckless."

Mrs Hudson and John rolled their eyes.

Molly bit back a grin.

With a triumphant turn, the detective shot out of the flat. Instantly, the excited footsteps of his family chased after him.

London's jungle welcomed them with open arms.

Mrs Hudson watched after them, smoothed her hands over her skirt and went to sit beside the softly crackling fire. Sherlock would protest it was _his_ chair she sat upon, but they both understood it was truly _hers._ The matriarch of Baker Street folded her hands together, and reminisced, wrinkles glowing like artist brushstrokes under the flames.

She'd never tire of this story. The story of the most alone man finding a family amongst the frivolity of the world. It seemed impossible, yet seemingly meant to be, all at once.

It felt like a conclusion, yet Mrs Hudson was wise enough to understand it was just the beginning.

Sherlock Holmes and his family.

Off to solve a crime.

* * *

 **Well well well, there we are. Oh my goodness!**

 **Thank you each and every one of you for your support. You truly make this hobby worthwhile, and I couldn't have done it without you. I thoroughly hope you've enjoyed the epilogue- there is a review box down there with your name on it! Wooo!**

 **For anyone wishing for more, I have a brand new story in the works that will be out very shortly- and I'm sooo excited for you to see what's in store! So hit up those alerts! The mysteries keep on coming!**

 **For one last time on this tale, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.**


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